BOOKS  BY  GOU VERNEUR  MORRIS 

PUBLISHED   BT  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
The  Penalty.    Illustrated.    (Postage  extra)    net  $1.35 

It,  and  Other  Stories net  $1.25 

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The  Penalty 


ffe 


'Are  you  in  love  with  me  now?"  he 
asked  wistfully 


THE  PENALTY 


By 

Gouverneur  Morris 


Illustrated  by 
Howard  Chandler  Christy 


New  York 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1913 


COPYKIGHT,  1913,  BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  March,  1913 


TO  MARY  BALDWIN 

IF  I  should  lose  from  my  life  that  part  of  it  of  which  you  are  a  part, 
there  would  be  but  a  skeleton  left.  Yet  if  you  had  played  a  larger 
part  in  my  life  I  should  have  been  so  spoiled  that  there  would  be  no 
living  with  me.  And  I'm  spoiled  enough,  God  knows! 

In  the  Iliad  you  wrote  for  me,  and  I  "drawed"  for  us  both,  'twas 
Hector  fixed  Achilles.  When  I  sat  at  your  right  hand  and  your 
sharp,  swift  knife  went  into  the  turkey,  'twas  I  that  got  the  tit-bits 
and  the  oyster.  And  all  was  right  with  the  world  then,  I  can  tell  you! 

We  have  ridden  together  over  old  battlefields,  and  I  have  worn  the 
epaulettes  and  the  swords  in  the  attic,  and  listened  to  tales  of  the 
great  brother  who  died  of  the  war,  and  whose  bull-terrier  Jerry  chased 
the  cannon-balls  at  Gettysburg.  Oh,  the  cutlass  captured  from  the 
Confederate  ram,  and  the  wooden  canteen,  and  the  Confederate 
money  (in  a  frame) !  I  was  the  hunter  that  used  to  handle  the  Colt 
(with  the  ships  engraved  on  the  cylinder)  that  shot  the  buffalo  from 
the  rear  platform  of  the  train,  and  was  stolen  by  a  genuine  thief. 
Is  Jeff  Davis's  bible  that  he  gave  to  the  brother  who  with  Major  R. 
caused  game  chickens  to  fight  for  the  edification  of  his  captivity  still 
in  your  upper  bureau  drawer? 

Are  the  photographs  that  General  Gilmore  had  taken  of  Charleston 
siege  still  in  the  bookcase  with  the  glass  doors?  Or  have  they  van- 
ished like  the  child's  footprint  that  I  made  for  you  when  we  were 
planting  the — the  "plant,"  and  I  was  going  away? 

Time  has  passed.  GranJnephews  are  as  young  and  hopeful  as 
nephews  used  to  be.  7  have  written  innumerable  miserable  grovel- 
ling tales.  I  dedicate  this  one  to  you;  despairing  at  last  of  writing 
that  masterpiece  which  should  have  been  worthy  of  you. 

But  tell  me  this:  Is  there  still  a  little  corner  of  your  heart  that  I 
may  call  mine?  a  corner  into  which  no  one  else  is  allowed  to  put — 
yes — to  put  foot?  Oh,  but  I  should  be  glad  to  know  that  I 

G.  M. 

BEDFORD,  February,  1913. 


2137361  * 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


"Are  you  in  love  with  me  now?"  he  asked  wistfully 

Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

She  wished  that  she  might  die,  or,  infinitely  better,  that 

she  had  never  been  born 6 

She  had  on  her  work-apron,  but  she  was  not  working  .      16 

He  praised,  blamed,  patronized  purled  his  pipe,  and 
dwelt  with  superiority  on  topics  which  are  best  left 
alone (Double  page)  28-29 

She  took  some  coins  from  her  purse  and  dropped  them 

into  the  tin  cup 50 

The  young  man  knelt  at  the  door  by  which  he  had  en-' 
tered  and  began  to  remove  its  ancient  lock 

(Double  Page)     72-73 

Harry,  the  workman,  .  .  .  rose  to  his  feet,  and  turned  to 

Barbara  with  a  certain  quiet  eagerness     ....       74 

But  Barbara  and  Wilmot  Allen,  well  used  to  even  larger 
and  more  stately  rooms,  chatted  ...  as  two  chil- 
dren   80 

She  faced  him,  still  scornful,  but  white  now,  and  biting 

her  lips 88 

In  a  few  minutes  Bubbles  returned.     "He's  just  sitting 
there  with  a  hell  of  a  face  on  him,"  he  said,  "and 
she's  working  like  a  dynamo "    .     (Double  page)     98-99 
vii 


viii  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

Dr.  Ferris  frowned.  "I'm  not  trying  to  interfere,"  he 
said.  "You're  old  enough  to  know  what's  best  for 
you" (Double  page)  128-129 

"Some  unknown  person,"  said  Barbara,  "has  formed 

the  habit  of  sending  me  flowers  " 134 

In  the  dim  light  she  looked  wonderfully  young  and 

beautiful 142 

He  turned  with  one  foot  on  the  sidewalk,  and  one  in  the 

cab.  .  .  .  "Here  I  wishes  you  salutations  .  .  ."     146 

Wilmot  Allen  took  her  in  to  dinner,  and  looked  much 

love  at  her,  and  talked  much  nonsense     ....     148 

He  saw  her  with  the  vase  of  jonquils  in  her  hand  .  .  . 
and  his  stout  heart  failed  him  a  little 

(Double  page)     162-163 

When  Bubbles  had  trotted  off,  she  dropped  into  her 

chair  and  cried 168 

The  door  opened,  and  Rose  staggered  into  the  room    .     172 

And  in  his  soul  the  legless  man  was  playing  only  for 

Barbara (Double  page)     210-211 

"'D  afternoon,  Mr.  Lichtenstein,"  said  Bubbles  .    .    .     224 

"I  want  me  thumb  bandaged" 236 

She  said  in  a  small,  surprised  voice,  "Why,  it's  finished "     242 

In  that  instant  the  legless  man  overreached  himself  and 

fell  heavily (Double  page)     246-247 

Barbara  .  .  .  dashed  into  her  dressing-room  and  locked 

the  door  behind  her 248 

They  passed  out  of  the  house  and  by  marble  steps  into 

the  first  and  most  formal  of  their  many  gardens  .    .    256 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS  ix 

FACING 
PAGE 

"  What  is  Wilmot  doing  with  himself  these  days?  "    "  He 
went  away,"  said  Barbara,  her  eyes  troubled 

(Double  page)     258-259 

He  caught  her  by  the  wrist,  drew  her  to  her  feet,  and 

into  the  room (Double  page)     280-281 

"I  twisted  the  truth  out  of  him,  and  then  flung  him  over 

a  cliff" 290 

"  Climb  out  of  that  chair,  and  let  me  out  of  this  house  "  .    298 

"I've  seen  that  man.     I  was  writing  notes  in  the  sum- 
mer house  when  he  came  " 306 

"Read  that,  father"    ....         (Double  page)    308-309 

The  engineer  made  generous  terms  across  the  dinner- 
table  (Double  page)     340-341 

"You  will,"  said  Barbara,  "when  the  things  dry"  .    .    342 

They  were  much  amused  with  Bubbles,  who  came  out  to 

them  for  Christmas  vacation  .     (Double  page)    344-345 

"And  when  you  think,"  said  she,  "that  some  women 

spend  the  best  years  of  their  lives  making  statues!  "    346 


The  Penalty 


THE  PENALTY 


THE  number  of  love  affairs  which  intervened  between 
Barbara  Ferris's  first  one,  when  she  was  eleven,  and 
her  twenty-second  birthday  could  not  have  been 
counted  on  the  ringers  of  her  two  hands.  Many 
boys,  many  men,  had  seemed  wonderfully  attractive 
to  her.  She  did  not  know  why.  She  knew  only 
that  the  attraction  seemed  strong  and  eternal  while 
it  lasted,  and  that  it  never  lasted  long.  She  was 
sixteen  before  she  began  to  consider  herself  a  heart- 
less, flirtatious,  unstable,  jilting  sort  of  a  girl.  When 
she  made  this  discovery,  she  was  terribly  ashamed, 
and  for  one  long  depressing  year  fell  in  love  with 
nobody,  became  very  shy,  and  hated  herself.  It  was 
during  this  year  that  she  had  her  first,  last,  and  only 
touch  of  mania.  It  lasted  only  a  little  while  and 
was  not  acute.  She  got  the  idea  that  she  was  being 
watched,  spied  on,  and  followed.  But  she  was  too 
strong  in  body  and  mind  to  give  in  for  long  to  so 
silly  an  hallucination.  And  when  she  had  dismissed 
the  second  man  and  her  maid,  who  had  particularly 
excited  her  suspicions,  the  mania  left  her,  as  a  dream 
leaves  at  waking. 

3 


4  THE  PENALTY 

In  her  seventeenth  year  she  was  presented  to  soci- 
ety, and  became  an  immense  favorite.  There  were  ex- 
cellent reasons  for  this:  she  was  lovely  to  look  at,  she 
would  inherit  a  great  deal  of  money,  she  had  charm- 
ing natural  manners,  and  she  was  sweet-tempered. 

During  her  second  season  she  had  an  unpleasant 
experience.  She  had  almost  reached  an  understand- 
ing with  a  certain  young  man  with  whom  she  fancied 
herself  in  love.  They  were  spending  a  Saturday  to 
Monday  at  a  great  place  on  Long  Island.  On  Sunday 
night,  her  host,  a  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father, 
invited  her  to  see  his  rose  garden  by  moonlight. 
She  accepted  this  invitation  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Pacing  down  a  path  between  tall  privet  hedges,  her 
host,  who  for  some  minutes  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
use  of  his  tongue,  made  her  a  sudden  impassioned 
declaration  of  love,  seized  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed 
her  wherever  he  could  with  a  kind  of  dreadful  fury. 
For  half  a  minute  she  stood  still  as  a  statue.  Then, 
crimson  with  shame  and  anger,  she  wrenched  free, 
and  struck  him  heavy  blows  on  the  face  and  head 
with  her  strong  young  fists.  She  beat  him,  not  in- 
deed to  insensibility,  but  to  his  senses.  They  re- 
turned to  the  house  after  a  time,  and  entered  the 
drawing-room  talking  in  lazy,  natural  voices  and 
praising  the  beauty  of  the  night  and  of  the  garden. 
Not  even  Barbara's  lover  suspected  that  anything 
out  of  the  common  had  happened. 

Barbara,  having  played  half  a  dozen  rubbers  of 
bridge  with  the  great  skill  and  sweet  temper  which 


THE  PENALTY  5 

were  natural  to  her,  excused  herself,  went  to  her 
room,  and  cried  half  the  night.  It  was  not  the 
shame  of  having  been  forcibly  kissed  that  sickened 
her  of  herself,  but  the  unforgettable,  unforgivable 
fact  that  toward  the  last  of  that  furious  kissing  she 
had  found  a  certain  low  feline  pleasure  in  the  kisses. 
She  wished  that  she  might  die,  or,  infinitely  better, 
that  she  had  never  been  born. 

It  seemed  terrible  to  her  that  she  could  at  once  be 
in  love  with  one  man  and  enjoy  the  kisses  of  another. 
She  had  heard  of  girls  who  were  thus,  and  had  for 
them  the  contempt  which  they  deserved.  And  yet 
it  seemed  that  she  was  one  of  them;  neither  better 
nor  worse.  What  Barbara  did  not  realize  was,  that 
in  the  first  place  she  was  not  really  in  love  with  any- 
body and  never  had  been,  and  that  it  was  not  she 
herself  who  enjoyed  being  kissed  by  a  man  to  whom 
she  was  indifferent,  neither  liking  nor  loathing,  but 
nature,  which  for  reasons,  or  perhaps  only  whims, 
of  its  own,  tempts  the  cell  to  divide  and  the  flower 
to  go  to  seed. 

Through  the  tangle  of  her  love  affairs  Wilmot 
Allen  threaded  a  path  of  hope,  despair,  and  cynicism. 
There  were  times  when  she  seemed  to  have  a  return 
of  her  childhood  infatuation  for  him;  there  were 
times  when  he  feared  that  in  one  of  her  moments  of 
impressionable  enthusiasm  she  would  marry  some 
other  man  in  haste,  and  repent  at  leisure.  And  there 
were  the  cynical  intervals,  when  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  do  without  her,  and  that  nothing  was 


6  THE  PENALTY 

worth  while  but  enjoyment,  both  base  and  innocent, 
and  pleasure. 

During  Wilmot's  junior  year  at  New  Haven,  his 
father's  sensational,  dissipated,  and  stock-gambling 
career  came  to  a  sudden  end.  There  was  even  a 
shadow  on  the  name.  He  had  done  something  really 
discreditable,  something  of  course  to  do  with  money; 
since  a  man  who  is  merely  a  gambler,  a  drunkard,  and 
a  Don  Juan  may  with  ease  keep  upon  good  terms 
with  society. 

Wilmot  Allen  failed,  at  least  without  honor,  filled 
himself  full  of  brandy,  cocked  a  forty-five-calibre  re- 
volver, put  the  muzzle  hi  his  mouth,  pulled  the  trigger, 
blew  off  the  back  of  his  head,  and  was  "accidentally 
shot  while  cleaning  the  weapon." 

The  real  tragedy  was  that  so  good  a  career  as  the 
son's  should  have  come  to  so  untimely  an  end  in  so 
good  a  collegiate  world  as  Yale.  He  stood  well  in 
his  class,  he  had  played  right  tackle  for  two  seasons 
and  was  heir  apparent  to  the  captaincy;  he  was  well 
beloved  and  would  have  received  an  election  to  a 
senior  society  in  the  spring.  But  the  solid  ground 
being  withdrawn  from  under  his  feet — in  other 
words,  his  allowance  from  his  father — he  left  amid 
universal  regret,  and  found  himself  a  very  small  per- 
son in  a  very  great  city;  worse,  a  youth  who  had 
always  had  everything,  loved  pleasure,  lights,  games, 
and  color,  and  who  now  had  no  visible  means  of 
support. 

Friends   found   him   a  position   in  Wall   Street. 


She  wished  that  she  might  die,  or, 
infinitely  better,  that  she  had  never 
been  born 


THE  PENALTY  7 

Being  young,  attractive,  a  good  "mixer,"  not  in  the 
least  shy,  he  was  given  a  handsome  "entertaining" 
allowance  and  told  to  bring  in  business.  So  he  fore- 
gathered with  out-of-town  magnates,  made  the  city 
a  pleasant,  familiar  place  to  them,  and  brought  much 
of  their  money  into  the  firm's  office.  When  Barbara 
was  kind  he  despised  his  anomalous  position  and 
strove  to  free  himself  from  it;  but  even  the  best  man 
has  to  live. 

And  during  those  intervals  when  he  thought  he 
could  do  without  her,  Wilmot  sank  deeper  and  deeper 
into  methods  of  self-advancement  which,  if  not  actu- 
ally base  and  culpable,  at  least  smirched  the  finer 
qualities  of  his  nature,  and  hardened  his  heart. 

If  the  father's  heritage,  drink  and  women,  were 
spared  him,  or  at  least  that  part  of  him  which  was 
really  noble,  a  love  of  cleanness,  clear-mindedness, 
and  purity,  died  hard.  But  gambling  was  second 
nature  to  him.  He  could  not  enjoy  a  game  unless  he 
had  something  on  it;  and  all  book-makers  and  pro- 
prietors of  gambling-houses  were  friends  of  his  and 
called  him  by  his  first  name.  Sometimes  through  a 
series  of  lucky  turns  he  rose  to  heights  of  picturesque 
affluence;  more  often  he  was  stone-broke;  but  so 
much  money  passed  through  his  hands  in  the  course 
of  a  year  that  it  was  always  possible  for  Vn'rn  to  bor- 
row and  live  well  enough  on  credit.  Money  became 
his  passion,  not  for  its  own  sake,  not  for  the  sake  of 
what  it  could  buy,  but  because  it  was  a  game  upon 
which  the  best  wits  of  the  world  have  been  engaged 


8  THE  PENALTY 

for  ages  and  ages — and  because  you  have  to  have  it, 
or  be  able  to  owe  so  much  that  it  amounts  to  the 
same  thing. 

At  first  when  he  got  in  a  hole,  owed  money  which 
he  saw  no  way  of  raising,  Wilmot  suffered  all  the 
anguish  and  remorse  of  the  trustee  who  has  specu- 
lated with  orphans'  funds  (for  the  first  time)  and 
lost  them.  Gradually  he  became  hardened.  And 
those  who  knew  him  best  could  never  tell  whether  he 
was  worth  fifty  thousand  or  had  just  lost  that  much. 
He  drew  upon  a  stock  of  courage  and  cheerfulness 
worthy  of  even  the  noblest  cause,  until  the  term  "self- 
respect"  dropped  automatically  from  his  inner  vo- 
cabulary and  his  moral  sense  became  a  rotten,  rusty 
buckler  through  which  the  spear  of  temptation  or 
necessity  passed  like  a  pin  through  a  sheet  of  tissue- 
paper. 

He  put  himself  under  obligation — in  moments  of 
supreme  need — to  dangerous  persons,  and  suffered 
from  the  familiarity  and  perhaps  the  contempt  of 
some  who  were  his  inferiors  in  breeding,  in  heart,  and 
in  soul. 

One  day,  being  at  his  wit's  end,  he  walked  rapidly, 
seeking  light,  through  a  quarter  of  the  city  which 
was  not  familiar  to  him.  He  was  in  that  mood 
when  a  man  does  not  wish  to  be  at  the  trouble  of 
nodding  or  exchanging  a  word  even  with  his  best 
friend.  A  voice  hailed  him,  "Mr.  Allen." 

He  stopped  and  saw  that  the  voice  came  from  a 
legless  man  who  sat  in  the  sun  by  a  hand-organ  on 


THE  PENALTY  9 

which  were  displayed  for  sale  a  few  pairs  of  shoe- 
laces and,  to  excite  charity,  a  battered  (and  empty) 
tin  cup. 

"Have  you  forgotten  me?" 

The  light  of  recognition  had  twinkled  instantly  in 
Wilmot's  eyes,  for  he  was  wonderful  at  remember- 
ing faces.  And  he  smiled  and  said: 

"Of  course  not.    How  are  you?" 

"Pretty  well,"  said  the  beggar.    "And  you?" 

"  Pretty  well." 

Wilmot's  giving  hand  had  slipped  automatically 
into  his  trousers  pocket.  Then,  for  once  in  his  char- 
itable life,  he  hesitated,  since  the  pocket  contained 
nothing  but  a  ten-dollar  bill,  and  that  was  all  the 
money  he  had  in  the  world  with  which  to  meet  a 
pressing  note  of  ten  thousand.  His  hesitation  lasted 
only  a  moment.  He  laughed  and  stuffed  the  ten- 
dollar  bill  into  the  cup,  and  said: 

"For  old  acquaintance'  sake." 

The  beggar  studied  the  young  man's  face.  Then 
he  said:  "Mr.  Allen,  I  once  had  the  honor  to  warn 
you  against  three  things." 

"I  remember." 

"Your  face  is  innocent  of  wine  and  women.  How 
about  the  gambling?  " 

"My  friend,"  said  Wilmot,  "you  read  me  like  a 
book.  The  gambling  is  all  to  the  bad.  I  have  just 
given  you  all  the  money  I  had  in  the  world." 

"A  few  dollars  are  of  no  use  to  me,"  said  the 
beggar. 


io  THE  PENALTY 

"Nor  to  me.    Don't  worry." 

"I  am  not  worrying.  I'm  thinking  that  you  and 
I  have  something  in  common.  And  for  that  reason 
I  am  tempted  to  ask  if  a  few  thousand  would  be  of 
any  use  to  you?  " 

Wilmot  smiled  with  engaging  candor.  "Fifteen 
thousand  would." 

"You  shall  have  them,"  said  the  beggar  shortly. 
He  pointed  to  a  glazed  door  across  which  was  printed 
in  gilt  letters: 

BLIZZARD — MFR. 
HATS 

"That,"  said  the  beggar,  "is  my  name,  and  that  is 
my  place  of  business.    Come  in." 

Wilmot  followed  the  beggar  through  the  glass  door, 
which  at  opening  and  closing  caused  a  bell  to  dang. 
The  front  of  the  establishment  was  occupied  by  a 
dust-ridden  salesroom,  and  an  office  with  yellow-pine 
partitions.  As  he  followed  the  beggar  into  this, 
Wilmot  caught  a  glimpse  in  the  distance  of  fifteen  or 
twenty  young  girls  who  sat  at  a  long  table  industri- 
ously plaiting  straw  hats.  He  lifted  his  own  hat  a 
little  mechanically,  and  thought  that  he  had  never 
seen  so  many  pretty  girls  at  one  time  under  one  roof. 


II 


WILMOT  buttoned  his  coat  over  fifteen  one-thousand- 
dollar  bills.  Only  supreme  necessity  could  have  per- 
suaded him  to  take  them,  since,  although  he  had  not 
put  his  name  to  a  paper  of  any  kind,  he  felt  a  little 
as  if  he  had  sold  himself  to  the  devil.  But  Blizzard 
had  shown  him  no  deviltry;  only  kindness  and  a 
certain  whimsicality  of  speech  and  a  point  of  view 
that  was  engaging. 

The  transaction  finished,  Wilmot  was  for  leaving, 
but  being  under  obligation  to  the  legless  man  was  at 
pains  not  to  be  abrupt.  He  lingered  then  a  little, 
and  they  talked. 

"The  first  time  we  met,"  said  the  beggar,  "you 
were  roller-skating  with  a  pretty  child.  She  was  so 
pretty  that  I  asked  you  her  name.  And  I  have 
never  forgotten  it." 

He  did  not  add  that  he  had  watched  that  pretty 
child's  goings  and  comings  for  many  years;  that  he 
had  lain  in  wait  to  see  her  pass;  that  he  had  bribed 
servants  in  her  father's  house  to  give  him  news  of 
her;  and  that  the  day  approached  when,  fearing 
neither  man  nor  God,  he  proposed  that  she  should 
disappear  from  the  world  that  knew  her,  and  go  down 
into  the  infamous  depths  of  that  vengeance  which 
had  been  the  key-note  of  his  life.  Nor  did  he  add 


12  THE  PENALTY 

that  there  were  but  two  contingencies  which  he  felt 
might  thwart  his  plans:  her  marriage  to  Wilmot  Allen, 
or  his  own  untimely  death.  And  he  feared  the  latter 
but  little.  The  former,  however,  had  at  times  seemed 
imminent  to  those  who  spied  upon  the  daily  life  of 
the  heiress  for  him,  and  in  lending  money  to  Wilmot 
he  was  taking  a  first  step  toward  making  it  impos- 
sible. For  Barbara  herself  Blizzard  had  at  this  time 
no  more  feeling  than  for  a  pawn  upon  a  chess-board. 
It  pleased  his  sense  of  fitness  to  know  she  was  beau- 
tiful; and  to  be  told  that  she  was  like  sunshine  in 
her  father's  house. 

"What  has  become  of  her?"  he  said. 

"Of  Miss  Ferris?"  Wilmot  did  not  care  to  dis- 
cuss her  with  a  stranger.  But  unfortunately  there 
were  fifteen  thousand  dollars  of  the  stranger's  money 
in  his  inside  pocket.  "She  became  a  great  favorite 
in  society,"  he  said,  "and  then  dropped  out  to  study 
art" 

"Painting? "  The  legless  man  knew  perfectly  well, 
but  it  suited  him  to  make  inquiries.  "Music?" 

"Sculpture,"  said  Wilmot  shortly. 

"Is  she  succeeding?" 

"She  works  very  hard,  and  she  has  talent." 

"That  is  not  enthusiastic." 

"You  mustn't  ask  me;  I'm  not  an  art  critic." 

"What  a  pity." 

"A  pity  that  I'm  not  an  art  critic?" 

"No.  A  pity  for  a  beautiful  girl  to  do  anything 
but  exist." 


THE  PENALTY  13 

Wilmot's  eyebrows  went  up  a  little.  The  beggar's 
speech  surprised  him,  and  pleased  him,  since  it  ex- 
pressed a  favorite  thought  of  his  own. 

"Is  any  of  her  work  on  exhibition?  Having  seen 
her  once,  one  takes  an  interest,  you  know." 

"I  think  there  is  nothing  that  can  be  seen,"  said 
Wilmot  coolly,  "except  upon  special  invitation.  And 
I  think  she  is  very  shy  of  showing  anything  that  she 
has  done." 

"True  artists,"  said  Blizzard,  who  criminally  was 
an  artist  himself  and  knew  what  he  was  talking  about, 
"live  in  the  future." 

Again  Wilmot's  eyebrows  went  up  a  little.  Why 
should  a  legless  beggar  be  able  to  make  loans  of  fif- 
teen thousand  dollars,  and  why  should  he  be  able  to 
talk  like  a  gentleman? 

"I  am  interested  in  art,"  continued  Blizzard; 
"sometimes  I  have  earned  a  few  dollars  by  sitting 
for  my  portrait." 

He  did  not  add  that  he  continually  put  himself  in 
the  way  of  artists  in  the  hope  that  his  fame  as  a 
model  would  reach  Barbara,  and  touch  her  imagina- 
tion. He  did  not  add  that  he  haunted  Washington 
Square  and  McBurney  Place,  where  her  studio  was, 
in  the  hope  that  his  face,  which  he  knew  to  be  differ- 
ent and  more  terrible  than  other  faces,  might  kindle 
a  fire  of  inspiration  in  her.  He  believed  rightly  that 
if  a  woman  once  looked  him  in  the  eyes  she  would 
never  forget  him.  But  hitherto  Barbara  had  not  so 
much  as  glanced  at  him,  since  she  carried  her  lovely 


14  THE  PENALTY 

head  very  high,  and  looked  straight  before  her  as 
she  went.  While,  as  for  him,  he  stood  upon  the 
stumps  of  his  legs,  a  gigantic  sort  of  dwarf,  beneath 
the  notice  of  the  proud-eyed  and  the  tall. 

Wilmot  passed  out  of  the  place  in  deep  thought; 
not  even  the  pretty  girls  plaiting  straw  won  a  glance 
from  him.  Coupled  with  the  relief  of  being  out  of 
present  difficulties  was  a  disagreeable  sense  of  fore- 
boding. Suppose  the  legless  man  were  to  ask  favors 
of  him  before  the  money  could  be  repaid?  Suppose 
they  were  favors  which  a  gentleman  could  not  grant? 
And  he  determined  to  find  out,  from  the  police  if 
necessary,  just  what  sort  of  a  man  it  was  with  whom 
he  had  had  dealings. 


Ill 


IT  seemed  to  Wilmot  that  he  had  not  seen  Barbara 
for  an  age.  And  indeed  a  week  had  passed  without 
their  meeting.  Therefore,  although  he  had  often  been 
forbidden  to  call  during  working  hours,  he  had  him- 
self driven  to  17  McBurney  Place  and  climbed  the 
two  flights  of  stairs  to  her  studio. 

It  was  a  disconsolate  Barbara  who  received  him. 
She  had  on  her  work-apron,  but  she  was  not  working. 
She  sat  in  a  deep  chair,  and  presented  the  soles  of 
her  small  shoes  to  an  open  fire.  Wilmot,  expecting 
to  be  scolded  for  disobeying  orders,  was  relieved  at 
being  received  with  visible  signs  of  pleasure. 

"You're  just  the  person  I  wanted  to  see,"  she  said, 
"just  the  one  and  only  Wilmot  in  the  world." 

"Are  you  dying?"  he  asked. 

She  laughed.  "I'm  discouraged.  I've  come  to  one 
of  those  times  when  you  just  want  to  chuck  every- 
thing. And  there's  a  man  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Wilmot,  "in  words  of  two  syl- 
lables." 

"Well,"  said  Barbara,  "I  woke  up  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  out  of  a  dream.  I  dreamed  I'd  made  a 
statue  of  Satan  after  the  fall  from  heaven,  and  that 
everybody  said:  'Well  done,  Barbs,  bully  for  you/ 
'Got  Rodin  skinned  a  mile' — it  was  you  said  that — 

is 


16  THE  PENALTY 

and  so  forth  and  so  on.  I  rose,  swollen  with  conceit, 
and  made  a  sketch  of  the  head  I'd  dreamed  about, 
so's  not  to  forget  the  pose,  and  then  I  went  to  sleep 
again.  Next  day,  early,  a  man  stopped  me  in  Wash- 
ington Square  and  begged  for  a  dime.  I  looked  at 
him,  and  he  had  just  the  expression  of  the  fallen 
Satan  I'd  dreamed  about — a  beast  of  a  face,  but  all 
filled  with  a  sort  of  hopeless  longing  to  'get  back,' 
and  remorse.  I  invited  him  to  pose  for  me — not  for 
a  dime — but  for  real  money.  Well,  he  fell  for  it. 
And  for  all  that  morning  he  looked  just  the  way  I 
wanted  him  to  look.  But  the  next  morning,  having 
had  the  spending  of  certain  moneys,  he  looked  too 
tidy  and  well  fed  for  Satan.  And  this  morning  he 
was  hopeless.  He  looked  smug  and  fatuous  and  dis- 
gustingly self-satisfied.  So  I  gave  him  quite  a  lot  of 
money,  not  wishing  to  hurt  the  creature's  feelings, 
and  told  him  to  go  away."  She  looked  up,  laugh- 
ing at  herself.  "Do  you  know,  I  really  believed  I'd 
dreamed  out  a  golden  inspiration,  and  then  to  strike 
just  the  face  I  wanted — and  then  to  have  everything 
foozle  out!" 

Wilmot  walked  over  to  the  modelling-table  on 
which,  strongly  modelled  in  wet  clay  but  quite  mean- 
ingless, was  the  bust  of  a  man. 

"I  think,"  said  Barbara,  "it  would  look  better  if 
you  snubbed  his  nose  for  him." 

Wilmot  snubbed  the  long  nose  heavenward,  and 
the  effect  was  such  as  to  make  them  laugh.  Barbara 
recovered  all  her  usual  good  humor. 


She  had  on  her  work-apron,  but  she 
was  not  working 


THE  PENALTY  17 

"Get  some  forms  out  of  the  kitchen,"  she  said, 
"and  we'll  turn  him  into  mud  pies." 

For  half  an  hour  they  diverted  themselves,  dis- 
playing a  tremendous  rivalry  and  enthusiasm.  And 
then  Barbara  announced  that  there  had  been  enough 
foolishness,  and  that  if  Wilmot  would  put  fuel  on 
the  fire,  he  might  talk  with  her  till  lunch-time  and 
then  take  her  out  to  lunch. 

"Always  provided,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  not 
broke  at  the  moment.  In  which  case  Barbara  will 
pay  and  tip." 

"I've  had  a  funny  adventure,"  said  Wilmot.  "I 
was  dreadfully  broke.  A  man  I  hadn't  seen  for  years 
and  years — and  only  the  once  at  that — stopped  me 
in  the  street,  told  me  I  was  broke,  and  offered  to 
lend  me  money.  Wilmot  accepted,  and  is  now 
plenty  flush  enough  to  blow  to  lunch,  thank  you!" 

Barbara  reseated  herself  in  the  deep  chair,  and 
once  more  presented  the  soles  of  her  shoes  to  the 
flames.  "Look  here,"  she  said,  "aren't  you,  just 
among  old  friends,  rather  flitting  your  life  away?  I 
don't  think  it's  very  pretty  to  borrow  money  from 
strangers,  and  to  be  always  just  getting  into  diffi- 
culties or  just  getting  out  of  them.  Do  you?" 

"Well,  you  know,"  said  Wilmot  earnestly,  "I 
don't.  When  I  don't  hate  myself,  I  don't  like  my- 
self any  too  well.  But  there's  something  wrong  with 
me.  Maybe  I'm  just  lazy.  Maybe  I  lack  an  im- 
pulse. Maybe  I'd  do  better  if  any  single  solitary 
person  in  this  world  really  gave  a  damn  about  me." 


i8  THE  PENALTY 

His  cheerful  boyish  face  assumed  a  proper  solemnity 
of  expression,  and  a  certain  nobility.  At  the  moment 
he  really  thought  that  nobody  in  the  world  cared 
what  became  of  him. 

"Nobody,"  said  Barbara,  "likes  to  back  a  flighty 
pony.  You  yourself,  for  instance,  are  always  put- 
ting money,  your  own  or  some  one  else's,  on  horses 
that  always  run  somewhere  near  form.  Of  course 
you  have  excuses  for  yourself." 

"I?    None." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have.  You  were  brought  up  to  be 
rich,  and  you  were  left  poor,  and  a  man  has  to  live 
and  even  secure  for  himself  the  luxuries  to  which  he 
has  been  accustomed.  Haven't  you  ever  excused 
yourself  to  yourself  something  like  that?" 

Wilmot  admitted  that  he  had,  and  went  further. 
"You  can't  knock  livings  out  of  a  tree  with  a  stick 
like  ripe  apples,"  he  said.  "You've  either  got  to 
use  your  wits  or  begin  at  the  bottom  and  work  up. 
And  it  seems  to  me  that  I'd  rather  be  a  little  bit 
tarnished  than  toil  away  the  best  years  of  my  life 
the  way  some  men  I  know  are  doing." 

"Yes,"  said  Barbara,  "but  why  not  go  somewhere 
where  the  world  is  younger,  and  there  are  real  chances 
to  be  a  man,  and  real  opportunities  to  make  money 
in  real  ways?  I  don't  blame  you  for  living  on  your 
wits.  I  blame  you  for  gambling  and  never  getting 
anywhere  and  not  caring." 

"Not  caring?    And  this  from  you?" 

She  changed  color  under  his  steady  eyes. 


THE  PENALTY  19 

"You  just  give  me  a  certain  promise,  Barbs,  and 
I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  I'll  settle  to  something 
above-board  and  make  it  hum.  Look  here  now! 
How  about  it?  Who's  been  so  faithful  to  the  one 
girl  for  so  long?  Who  understands  her  so  well? 
Who'd  enjoy  dying  for  her  so  much?" 

"  Good  old  Wilmot,"  she  said  gently  and  gave  him 
her  hand.  He  kissed  it  and  would  have  liked  to  go 
on  holding  it  forever,  but  she  took  it  away  from  him, 
and  after  a  silence  said,  with  some  bitterness:  "I 
mustn't  ever  marry  anybody.  I've  learned  to  know 
myself  too  well.  And  I've  no  constancy,  and  I  don't 
trust  myself." 

"That,"  said  Wilmot  with  the  faith  of  a  fanatic  in 
his  god,  "is  because  you've  never  really  cared." 

"And  besides,"  she  said,  "I  have  what  I  am 
pleased  to  call  my  career.  And  'Down  to  Gehenna 
and  up  to  the  throne  he  travels  fastest  who  travels 
alone.'" 

"True,"  said  Wilmot,  "he  arrives  soonest,  but  all 
tired  out,  and  the  house  is  empty,  and  there  are  no 
children  in  it,  and  only  paid  servants.  And  it  may 
be  very  showy  to  live  for  fame,  but  it  isn't  good 
enough.  When  we  turned  that  bust  you  began  into 
mud  pies,  we  did  a  wise  thing.  We  amused  ourselves, 
and  we  said  the  last  word  on  art  as  opposed  to  life. 
The  best  thing  in  this  world  is  to  be  children  and  to 
have  children — and  the  next  best  thing  is  nowhere." 

"Would  you,"  said  Barbara,  and  her  eyes  twinkled 
a  little,  "really  rather  be  a  parent  than  a  Praxiteles?" 


20  THE  PENALTY 

"It  looks  to  me,"  said  Wilmot  sadly,  "sometimes 
— in  moments  of  despondency — as  if  the  honorable 
gentleman  was  never  going  to  be  either.  But  then 
again,"  and  he  spoke  in  a  strong  voice,  "I  believe  in 
my  heart  that  after  you've  done  handling  the  book 
of  life  and  admiring  the  binding,  you'll  open  it  at 
chapter  one,  and  read,  'Young  Wilmot  Allen " 

"Lunch-time,"  said  Barbara,  and  she  rose  from 
the  comfortable  chair  with  sharp  decision.  "I  vote 
for  a  thick  steak,  being  famished.  Is  my  hair  all 
mussy?" 

"No,"  said  Wilmot  dejectedly.  "I  wish  it  was. 
And  I  wish  it  was  my  fault — and  yours." 


IV 


"I'VE  done  enough  for  you  more  than  once,"  said 
the  legless  man;  "you're  big  enough  and  strong 
enough  to  work,  but  you're  a  born  loafer." 

"I  had  a  job."  The  speaker,  a  shabby,  unshaven 
man  with  a  beastly  face,  whined  dolefully.  "And  I 
done  right;  but  I  got  the  sack." 

"What  was  the  job  and  why  were  you  sacked?" 

"I  got  a  job  as  a  artist's  model.  I  sits  in  a  chair 
while  the  lady  makes  a  statue  out  of  my  face,  and 
then  she  gives  me  money,  and  I  goes  and  spends  it. 
The  third  day  she  gives  me  more  money,  and  tells 
me  I  looks  too  well  fed  and  happy  to  suit  her,  and 
sends  me  away." 

The  legless  man  was  astonished  to  learn  that  his 
heart  was  beating  with  unaccustomed  force  and  ra- 
pidity. "Who  was  the  artist?" 

"  She's  a  lady  name  o'  Ferris." 

The  legless  man  steeled  his  face  to  express  nothing. 
"Ferris,"  he  commented  briefly. 

"Say,"  said  the  unshaven  man,  "what's  all  that 
about  the  devil  falling  out  of  heaven  and  fetching  up 
in  hell?" 

"Why?" 

"That's  how  she  says  I  looks.  And  she  wants  to 
make  a  statue  of  him,  just  when  he  comes  to  and 
sits  up,  and  looks  up  and  sees  how  far  he's  fell.  She 


22  THE  PENALTY 

says  my  face  has  all  the  sorrers  and  horrors  of  the 
world  in  it." 

"And  then,  you  fool,"  said  the  legless  man,  "you 
spoiled  her  game  by  high  living.  You  ate  and  you 
drank  till  you  looked  like  a  paranoiac  bulldog  asleep 
in  the  sun.  Where  was  the  lady's  studio?" 

"Seventeen  McBurney  Place." 

"And  she  wants  to  do  a  Satan,  does  she?" 

The  unshaven  man  drew  back  from  the  expression 
of  the  legless  man,  in  whose  face  it  was  as  if  all  the 
fires  of  hell  had  suddenly  burst  into  flame.  The  un- 
shaven man  covered  the  breast  of  his  threadbare  coat 
with  outstretched  hands  as  if  to  shield  himself  from 
some  suddenly  bared  weapon.  His  eyes  blinked,  but 
did  not  falter. 

"Say,"  he  said  presently,  after  drawing  a  deep 
breath,  "if  she  could  see  you  once." 

"If  I  don't  know,"  said  the  legless  man,  "how 
Satan  felt  after  the  fall,  nobody  does.  The  things 
I've  been — the  things  I've  seen — back  there — down 
here — the  things  I've  lost — the  things  I've  found! 
Hell's  Bell's,  Johnson!  what  is  it  you  want — food? — 
drink? — a  woman?  " 

The  unshaven  man's  eyes  shone  with  an  unholy 
light. 

"What  would  you  do  for  twenty-five  dollars?" 

The  unshaven  man  said  nothing.  He  looked 
everything. 

"Do  you  know  the  Mclver  woman?" 

"Fanny?" 


THE  PENALTY  23 

The  legless  man  grunted.  "Yes.  Fanny.  She'll 
look  at  you  if  you've  got  money." 

"She'd  crawl  through  a  sewer  to  find  a  dime." 

"Quite  so,"  the  legless  man  commented  dryly. 
"Well,  it  wouldn't  matter  to  me  if  she  went  on  a 
tear  and  was  found  dead  in  her  bed." 

"It's  worth  fifty."  Something  in  the  unshaven 
man's  voice  suggested  that  he  had  once  been  remotely 
connected  with  some  sort  of  a  business. 

The  legless  man  shook  his  head.  "Judas  Iscariot," 
he  said,  "betrayed  the  Lord  God  for  thirty.  Fanny 
Mclver's  scalp  isn't  worth  a  cent  over  twenty-five. 
You're  just  a  broken-down  drunk.  It  takes  a  bigger 
bluffer  than  you  to  make  me  put  an  insult  on  Chris- 
tendom. Fifteen  down.  Ten  when  Fanny's  had  her 
last  hang-over." 

"Why  don't  you  do  some  of  your  dirty  work  your- 
self?" ' 

"I  do  all  I  can,"  said  the  legless  man  simply;  "I 
can't  find  time  for  everything." 

The  unshaven  man  shifted  uneasily  on  his  shabby 
feet.  In  his  stomach  the  flames  which  only  alcohol 
can  quench  were  burning  with  a  steady  gnawing  fury. 
"How  about  a  little  drink?"  he  said. 

"Fifteen  down,"  said  the  legless  man;  "ten  when 
the  job's  done,  and  a  ticket  to  Chicago." 

"With  a  reservation?  I'll  feel  like  the  devil;  I 
couldn't  sit  up  all  night." 

"I'll  throw  in  an  upper,"  said  the  legless  man. 

Still  the  unshaven  man  resisted.  "What's  Fanny 
done  to  you?" 


24  THE  PENALTY 

"None  of  your  business." 

As  if  that  settled  the  matter,  and  removed  all  ob- 
stacles and  moral  scruples,  the  unshaven  man  sighed, 
and  held  out  his  hand  for  the  money  which  was  to 
bind  the  contract. 

Twelve  hours  later,  Fanny  Mclver's  death  was  be- 
ing attributed  by  the  authorities  to  the  insane,  jeal- 
ous rage  of  a  lover.  But  as  she  had  lately  changed 
her  name  and  address,  she  lay  for  a  while  in  the 
morgue  awaiting  identification.  It  was  the  legless 
beggar  who  performed  that  last  solemn  rite.  He  was 
quite  unmoved.  Her  death  mattered  no  more  in  his 
scheme  of  life  than  the  death  of  a  fly. 

But  as  he  held  up  his  hand  and  swore  that  the 
identity  of  the  corpse  was  such  and  such,  he  remem- 
bered how  graceful  she  had  been  at  sixteen,  how  affec- 
tionate, how  ready  to  forgive.  He  remembered  with 
a  certain  admiration  that  during  the  heyday  of  her 
earning  powers  she  had  always  trusted  to  his  gener- 
osity, and  had  never  tried  to  hold  any  of  her  earnings 
back.  Prison  and  drink  had  destroyed  all  that  was 
honest  in  her,  all  that  was  womanly.  So  a  drop  of 
acid  will  eat  out  the  heart  of  the  freshest  and  loveli- 
est rose.  She  became  a  very  evil  thing — full  of  evil 
knowledge.  There  was  even  a  certain  danger  in  her 
— not  much — nothing  definite — but  enough.  She  was 
better  dead. 

He  turned  and  swung  out  of  the  morgue  into  the 
sunlight.  And  he  wondered  whatever  had  become 
of  the  child  that  she  had  borne  him. 


V 


IT  would  have  been  easier  for  Wilmot  Allen  if  he 
could  have  come  into  Barbara's  life  for  the  first 
time.  She  was  too  used  to  him  to  appreciate  such 
of  his  qualities  as  were  fine  and  noble  at  their  true 
value.  And  contrarily  it  was  the  same  familiarity 
which  limned  his  faults  so  clearly  and  perhaps  ex- 
aggerated them.  She  often  thought  that  if  she  could 
see  him  for  the  first  time  she  would  fall  head  over 
ears  in  love  with  him,  and  be  married  to  him  out  of 
hand.  Was  it  not  better  therefore,  since  the  man's 
character  had  its  disillusionments,  that  their  life-long 
friendship  precluded  the  idea  of  marrying  in  haste 
and  repenting  at  leisure?  "It's  almost,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "as  if  I  had  married  him  long  ago  and  found 
out  that  I  had  made  a  mistake." 

But  she  hated  to  hurt  him  in  any  way.  And  it 
caused  her  a  genuine  sorrow  sometimes  to  say  no  to 
him.  He  had  proposed  to  her  many  times  a  year 
for  many,  many  years,  and  always  with  a  passion 
and  sincerity  that  made  it  appear  as  if  he  was  pro- 
posing for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  Twice,  the  strength 
and  devotion  of  his  physical  presence  had  seemed  to 
remove  every  doubt  of  him  from  her  mind,  and  she 
had  said  that  she  would  marry  him,  and  had  been 
ecstatically  happy  while  he  kissed  her  and  held  her 
in  his  arms.  And  each  time  better  knowledge  of 

25 


26  THE  PENALTY 

herself,  a  sleepless  night,  and  the  unsparing  light  of 
morning  had  filled  her  with  shame  and  remorse,  and 
made  it  quite  clear  that  she  had  made  one  more  mis- 
take, and  must  tell  him  so,  and  eat  humble  pie.  And 
exact  a  promise  that  he  would  never  make  love  to 
her  again.  But  she  could  never  get  him  to  promise 
that.  And  she  could  never  keep  him  from  kissing 
things  that  belonged  to  her  when  she  was  looking, 
and  when  she  wasn't.  And  if,  as  he  sometimes 
threatened  in  moments  of  disappointed  and  injured 
feelings,  he  had  gone  far  away,  so  that  he  could  never 
cross  her  path  again,  she  would  have  missed  him  so 
much  that  it  would  almost  have  killed  her.  And  so 
it  is  with  all  human  beings — they  care  little  enough 
about  their  dearest  possessions  until  the  fire  by  night 
consumes  them,  or  the  thief  walks  off  with  them. 
Then  the  silver  and  the  jewels,  and  this  thing  and 
that,  assume  a  sort  of  humanity — and  are  as  if  they 
had  been  dear  friends  and  unutterably  necessary 
companions  in  joy  and  sorrow. 

To  Wilmot  a  little  encouragement  was  a  great 
thing,  a  foundation  upon  which  to  undertake  pyra- 
mids. Having  intruded  upon  Barbara's  working 
hours  without  being  scolded,  Wilmot  began  to  pict- 
ure for  himself  a  delightful  life  of  intruding  upon  them 
every  day.  He  hoped  that  if  she  was  really  working, 
she  would  not  actually  send  him  away,  but  let  him 
sit  in  the  deep  chair  by  the  fire  and  wait  till  she  was 
through,  and  ready  for  talk  and  play.  As  much  al- 
most as  he  loved  her,  he  hated  her  ambitions,  if  only 


THE  PENALTY  27 

because  they  interfered  with  him,  and  because  he 
found  it  impossible  to  take  them  seriously.  Her 
work  seemed  surprisingly  good  to  him — not  surpris- 
ingly good  for  a  genuine  sculptor  who  exhibited  in 
salons,  but  for  a  girl  of  his  own  class  whom  he  had 
always  known.  In  this  estimate  he  did  not  do  Bar- 
bara justice.  She  had  a  fine  natural  talent  and  she 
had  been  well  trained.  People  who  knew  what  they 
were  talking  about,  shock-headed  young  fellows  with 
neighboring  studios,  prophesied  great  things  for  her, 
partly  because  she  was  beautiful,  and  partly  because 
her  work,  as  far  as  she  had  gone  in  it,  was  really  good. 
What  she  lacked,  they  said,  was  inspiration,  experi- 
ence, and  knowledge  of  life.  When  these  things  came 
to  her  in  due  time,  her  technique  would  be  quite  equal 
to  expressing  them. 

Wihnot's  dream  of  being  much  in  Barbara's  studio 
proved  negotiable  only  as  a  dream.  Barbara  began 
a  fountain  for  her  father's  garden  at  Clovelly,  and 
during  the  modelling  of  the  central  figure  the  studio 
was  no  place  for  a  modest  young  man.  He  had  one 
glimpse  through  the  half-open  door  of  a  girl  with 
very  red  hair  and  very  white  skin,  and  he  turned  and 
beat  a  decided  retreat,  blushing  furiously.  He  did 
not  repeat  his  visit  to  her  studio  until  Barbara  as- 
sured him  that  the  nymph  had  put  on  her  clothes 
and  gone  away.  Then,  much  to  his  disgust,  he 
found  there  a  young  fellow  named  Scupper,  who 
smoked  a  vile  pipe  and  had  dirty  finger-nails  and 
was  allowed  to  make  himself  at  home  because  he 


28  THE  PENALTY 

had  recently  exhibited  a  portrait  bust  that  everybody 
was  praising  (even  Wilmot)  and  because  he  had  vol- 
unteered during  a  delightful  contemplation  of  Bar- 
bara's face  to  do  her  portrait  and  tell  her  all  that  he 
had  learned  from  his  great  master,  Rodin. 

The  little  beast  had  the  assurance  of  the  devil. 
He  praised,  blamed,  patronized,  puffed  his  pipe,  and 
dwelt  with  superiority  on  topics  which  are  best  left 
alone,  until  Wilmot  wanted  to  kick  him  downstairs. 
Scupper,  aware  of  Wilmot's  dislike  for  him,  and  thor- 
oughly cognizant  of  its  causes,  did  his  best  to  goad 
the  "young  prude"  (as  he  chose  to  consider  him) 
into  open  hostility.  He  strutted,  boasted,  puffed,  and 
talked  loosely  without  avail.  Wilmot  maintained  a 
beautiful  calm,  and  the  more  he  raged  internally  the 
more  Chesterfieldian  and  gorgeously  at  ease  his  man- 
ners became.  Barbara  enjoyed  the  contest  between 
the  terrier  and  the  Newfoundland  hugely.  Person- 
ally she  disliked  Scupper  almost  as  much  as  she  liked 
Wilmot,  but  artistically  she  admired  him  tremen- 
dously and  felt  that  his  judgments  and  criticisms  were 
the  most  valuable  things  to  be  had  in  the  whole  city. 

Wilmot  not  only  kept  his  temper,  but  outstayed 
his  antagonist.  The  latter  gone,  he  turned  upon  Bar- 
bara, and  she  in  mock  terror  held  up  her  hands  for 
mercy;  but  Wilmot  was  not  in  a  merciful  mood. 

"When  you  imagine  that  you  are  uplifting  the 
cause  of  art,  Barbs,  are  you  sure  that  you  aren't  de- 
basing it?  You  won't  marry  a  man  who  has  always 
loved  you.  Art.  You  put  marble  and  bronze  higher 


He  praised,  blamed,  patronized,  purled 
his  pipe,  and  dwelt  with  superiority 
on  topics  which  are  best  left  alone 


THE  PENALTY  29 

than  little  children.  Art.  You  allow  disreputable, 
unwashed  men  to  talk  in  your  presence  as  that  man 
talked.  Art.  You  hire  people  of  bad  character  to 
sit  for  you,  and  people  of  no  character.  All  art. 
You  treat  them  in  a  spirit  of  friendliness  and  cama- 
raderie. You  affect  to  place  art  above  all  consider- 
ations; above  character,  above  morals;  worse,  you 
place  it  above  cleanliness. 

"A  man — yes,  take  him  for  all  and  all,  a  man — 
eats  out  his  heart  for  you;  desires  only  to  live  for 
you,  only  to  die  for  you,  only  to  lie  at  your  feet 
afterward — that  is  nothing  to  you.  You  do  not  even 
care  to  listen.  You  would  rather  hear  through  a 
braggart,  indecent  mouth  that  ought  to  be  sewed  up 
what  Rodin  said  about  Phidias.  It  seems  finer  to 
you  to  be  an  artist  than  a  woman,  and  you  so  beauti- 
ful and  so  dear!" 

Barbara  made  no  answer.  She  looked  a  little  hurt, 
possibly  a  little  sullen.  She  had  a  way  of  looking  a 
little  sullen  (it  did  not  happen  often)  when  she  could 
not  hit  upon  just  the  words  she  wanted  to  express 
her  thoughts.  She  felt  that  her  attitude  toward  life 
was  almost  entirely  right,  almost  entirely  justifiable, 
and  she  wanted  to  explain  exactly  why  this  was  thus, 
and  couldn't.  So  after  a  silence  she  said: 

"Oh,  I'm  just  a  little  pig.  Why  bother  about  me? 
And  besides,  it's  no  use." 

"Don't  say  that,  Barbara.  There  must  be  use  in 
it.  Don't  you  know  in  your  heart  that  some  day 
you  are  going  to  marry  me?" 


3o  THE  PENALTY 

"No,"  she  said.  "Sometimes  I've  thought  so,  but 
I  don't  know  it."  She  selected  an  arrow  from  her 
quiver,  touched  the  point  with  venom,  and  because 
she  had  not  enjoyed  being  scolded  shot  it  into  him. 
"And  at  the  moment  I  don't  think  so." 

Wilmot  spoke  on  patiently.  "Every  true  lover, 
Barbs,"  he  said,  "comes  in  time  to  the  end  of  his 
patience  and  the  end  of  his  endurance." 

"And  then  he  ceases  from  loving — and  troubling." 

"He  does  not.  When  he  knows  as  I  know  what  is 
best  for  her  happiness  and  for  his,  and  when  he  finds 
that  humbleness,  and  begging,  and  gentleness,  and 
persuasion  are  of  no  avail — why,  then  if  he's  a  man 
he  makes  her  love  him,  makes  her  marry  him." 

"I  hope,  my  dear  Wilmot,"  she  said,  "that  you 
are  speaking  from  a  very  limited  experience." 

"From  the  experience  of  ten  million  years.  I  have 
only  one  life  to  live.  Somehow  I  will  make  you  love 
me,  make  you  belong  to  me.  Just  because  I  eat  with 
a  fork,  do  you  think  my  heart  is  really  any  different 
from  that  of  the  cave-man  from  whom  it  descended 
to  me,  or  that  your  heart  is  any  different  from  that 
of  the  girl  he  wanted,  who  kept  him  guessing  and 
guessing  until  he  couldn't  stand  it,  and  then  turned 
and  ran  and  ran  through  the  woods,  and  swam  rivers 
and  climbed  trees  and  jumped  down  precipices  until 
he  caught  her?  " 

There  was  something  in  Wilmot's  lowered  brows, 
a  certain  jerking,  broken  quality  in  his  utterance, 
that  was  new  to  Barbara — that  at  once  frightened 


THE  PENALTY  31 

her  a  little,  and  caused  her  heart  to  beat  with  a  sort 
of  wild  triumph.  But  she  did  not  guess  that  the  old 
cave-man  was  at  that  moment  actually  looking  out 
through  her  old  friend's  eye-places,  and  that  ten 
thousand  years  of  civilization  are  but  a  thin  varnish 
over  the  rough  and  splendid  masterpiece  that  God 
made  in  his  image. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  Scupper 
returning.  He  had  left  his  beloved  pipe  (on  pur- 
pose). His  shrewd,  bloodshot  little  eyes  took  in  the 
situation  at  a  glance.  In  two  beats  his  little  heart 
was  wild  with  jealousy. 

"I  beg  everybody's  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  didn't 
know.  I — er — wouldn't  have  knocked — I — er — mean 
I  would  have  knocked  just  the  same." 

Wilmot  took  one  slow  step  toward  the  famous 
sculptor,  then  smiled,  picked  up  the  fellow's  pipe, 
and  returned  it  to  him.  "I  saw  you  put  it  down 
just  before  you  left,"  he  said.  "I  think  there  is 
nothing  else  you  have  forgotten,  is  there?  If  there 
is  I  think  it  will  be  best  not  to  come  back  for  it  until 
I  have  gone.  Meanwhile  you  will  have  time  to  shave 
and  bathe  and  make  yourself  presentable." 

Scupper,  sure  that  he  was  not  actually  going  to  be 
hit,  escaped  with  an  ease  and  jauntiness  which  he 
was  far  from  feeling.  And  Barbara,  the  high  tension 
relieved,  burst  out  laughing. 

It  was  Wilmot's  turn  to  look  sullen.  He  had  felt 
that  the  sheer  animal  force  of  his  love  was  holding 
and  even  moulding  Barbara  to  his  will,  as  no  tender- 


32  THE  PENALTY 

ness  and  delicacy  had  ever  done.  But  at  the  sculp- 
tor's entrance,  the  honest  if  brutal  cave-man  had 
fled,  like  some  noble  savage  before  a  talking-machine, 
and  left  in  a  state  of  civilized  helplessness  a  young 
gentleman  who  could  not  find  anything  to  say  for 
himself. 

As  for  Barbara,  she  had  never  seen  Wilmot  look  as 
he  had  looked,  or  heard  those  quivering,  broken  tones 
in  his  voice.  The  savage  in  her  had  gone  out  to  him 
with  open  arms  and,  behold,  the  primal  force  which, 
standing  like  an  island  of  refuge  in  a  sea  of  doubt, 
she  had  been  about  to  clasp  was  but  an  empty  shadow. 
That  Wilmot  had  not  done  very  nobly  with  his  tal- 
ents, that  there  were  weaknesses  in  his  character  and 
record,  things  even  that  needed  explaining,  had  not 
at  the  moment  of  his  mastery  mattered  to  her  a  jot. 
But  now  such  thoughts  flocked  to  her  like  birds  to  a 
tree;  and  she  was  glad  that  she  had  escaped  from  a 
situation  that  had  so  nearly  overwhelmed  her  reason 
and  drowned  her  common  sense  in  the  heavenly 
sweetness  of  surrender. 

Wilmot  could  find  nothing  to  say.  It  was  no  mere 
gust  of  passion  that  had  swept  over  him,  but  a  storm. 
He  was  physically  tired,  as  if  he  had  rowed  a  long 
race.  He  no  longer  wished  to  play  the  master.  He 
would  rather  a  thousand  times  have  rested  his  hot 
forehead  on  Barbara's  cool  hand,  and  fallen  quietly 
asleep  like  a  little  child  come  in  at  last  to  his  mother 
after  too  much  play  in  the  hot  sun. 

"Life,"  he  said  at  last,  "is  a  nuisance,  Barbs. 


THE  PENALTY  33 

Isn't  it?  Would  you,  honestly,  be  happier  if  I  dis- 
appeared, and  never  bothered  you  again?  Some- 
times I  feel  that  I  ought  to." 

She  shook  her  head.  "If  you  like  people,"  she 
said,  "you  like  them,  faults  and  all.  I'm  dependent 
on  you  in  a  hundred  ways.  You're  the  oldest  and 
best  friend  I've  got.  If  you  disappeared  I'd  curl  up 
and  die.  But  now  that  we  are  talking  personalities, 
you  very  nearly  forgot  yourself  a  few  minutes  ago. 
Well,  I  forgive.  But  it  mustn't  happen  again." 

He  bowed  his  head  very  humbly.  "I  will  go  back 
to  patience  and  gentleness,"  he  said,  "and  give  them 
another  trial." 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  "that  you  would  go  back  and 
begin  your  life  over  again — stop  drifting  and  sail  for 
some  definite  harbor." 

"I  will,"  he  said,  "on  condition " 

"No — no — no,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "no  condition. 
I  am  in  no  position  to  make  conditions,  if  that's 
what  you  mean.  I  don't  understand  myself.  I  don't 
trust  myself.  I  will  not  undertake  to  bind  myself  to 
you  or  any  one  until  I  know  that  I  can  trust  myself. 
It  would  be  very  jolly  for  you  if  I  married  you  and 
then  we  found  that  I  really  loved  the  other  fellow. 
I'm  like  that — selfish,  unstable,  susceptible — and  very 
much  ashamed  of  myself.  I  wouldn't  talk  myself 
down  so  if  you  didn't  know  these  things  as  well  as 
I  do.  Why  you  go  on  caring  for  me  is  a  mystery. 
I'm  no  good.  And  I'm  not  even  sorry  enough  to 
cry  about  it — ever.  I've  actually  thought  that  I  was 


34  THE  PENALTY 

in  love — oh,  ever  so  many  times:  sometimes  with 
you.  What's  the  use?  The  only  things  I've  ever 
been  faithful  to  are  the  dressmaker,  dancing,  and 
what  in  moments  of  supreme  egoism  I  am  pleased  to 
call  my  art." 

"Barbs,"  he  said,  "you're  an  old  silly  billy,  and  I 
love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  That's  that. 
Don't  forget  it.  Take  pen  and  ink  if  necessary  and 
write  it  down.  I'll  try  a  little  more  patience,  and 
then,  my  blessing,  if  there's  no  good  in  that,  I  shall 
perpetrate  marriage  by  capture." 

They  both  laughed,  the  girl  with  much  sweetness. 
And  she  said: 

"If  you  and  I  ever  do  marry,  it  will  be  with  great 
suddenness."  Her  eyes  danced,  and  she  added: 
"There  are  moments!" 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  gravely,  and  then  with  a 
kind  of  wistful  gallantry:  "Could  I  kiss  the  dear  for 
luck?" 

She  turned  her  cheek  to  him  bravely  and  frankly 
like  a  child.  His  lips  touched  it  lightly,  making  no 
sound. 

Far  off  hi  the  native  jungle  the  cave-man  moaned, 
and  shut  his  eyes  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  of 
his  cave.  The  medicine-man  came,  examined  him, 
and  said  that  he  was  about  to  die  of  a  new  disease. 
He  looked  very  wise  and  called  it  "predatory  in- 
anition." 

As  for  the  cave-girl,  having  run  and  run  and  run, 
she  pulled  up  in  a  flowery  glade,  looked  behind,  lis- 


THE  PENALTY  35 

tened,  saw  nothing,  heard  no  sound  of  painfully  pur- 
suing feet,  and  called  herself  a  fool  and  a  silly  for 
having  run.  She  wanted  to  explain  that  she  hadn't 
meant  to  run  away,  that  girls  never  really  meant 
what  they  said,  and  would  the  cave-man  please  re- 
cover at  once  from  his  predatory  inanition  and  take 
notice  of  her  again? 

"Come,"  said  Barbara,  after  quite  a  long  silence, 
"let's  go  forth  and  collar  a  taxi.  Anywhere  I  can 
take  you?  I  can't  ask  you  to  lunch,  because  I  am 
having  seven  maidens,  and  afterward  Victor  Polideon 
to  teach  us  to  turkey-trot." 

"I  wouldn't  be  afraid  of  seven  devils,"  Wilmot 
urged  in  his  own  behalf,  "if  you  were  present." 

"There  are  only  two,"  she  said  practically,  "and 
they  are  very  little  devils.  But  I  won't  let  you  come, 
because  you  would  have  much  too  good  a  time." 
Then  she  relented.  "Come  later,  about  three,  and 
teach  me  to  turkey-trot.  You  do  it  better  than 
Polideon.  And  I  hate  to  have  him  touch  me." 

"That's  something,"  he  exclaimed  triumphantly. 

"What's  something?" 

"That  you  don't  hate  for  me  to  touch  you." 

She  laughed  and  tapped  his  shoulder  in  rag-time. 
Also  she  whistled,  and  did  a  quiet  suspicion  of  a 
turkey-trot  with  her  feet. 


VI 


ONE  bright  morning  in  May,  divinely  early,  two 
persons  of  very  different  appearance  and  nature 
came  out  of  two  houses  of  very  different  appearance 
and  nature  at  precisely  the  same  moment,  and 
started  to  move  toward  each  other  by  methods  of 
locomotion  no  less  different  than  were  the  appear- 
ances of  the  respective  persons  or  the  respective 
houses  from  which  they  emerged. 

The  house  from  which  the  one  issued  was  of  speck- 
less  white  marble,  and  looked  from  the  advantageous 
corner  of  Sixty-something  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue 
upon  the  purple  and  white  lilacs  and  the  engaging 
spring  greens  of  Central  Park. 

The  other  came  out  of  a  dark  house  at  the  angle 
of  a  narrow  street  hi  the  shadow  of  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
whose  door,  crossed  by  dingy  gilt  lettering,  violently 
clanged  a  bell  at  opening  and  dosing.  The  first  per- 
son stepped  with  the  long  clean  strides  of  youth  and 
liberty.  The  second  person  cannot  be  said  to  have 
stepped  at  all.  The  first  person,  meeting  a  police- 
man, smiled  and  said:  "Good  morning, Kelly."  The 
second,  similarly  meeting  with  an  officer  of  the  law, 
scowled  upward,  and  said:  "Do  it  again,  and  I'll 
break  you."  The  first  person  came  out  of  the  up- 
town palace  like  a  fairy  from  a  grotto;  the  second 

36 


THE  PENALTY  37 

emerged  from  the  downtown  rookery  like  some  pre- 
historic monster  from  a  cave. 

At  a  distance  you  might  have  mistaken  him  for  an 
electrician  or  a  sewer-expert  coming  into  view  through 
one  of  those  round  holes  in  the  sidewalk  by  which 
access  is  provided  to  the  subterranean  apparatus  of 
cities.  But,  drawing  nearer,  you  perceived  that  he 
was  but  half  a  man,  who  stood  upon  the  six-inch 
stubs  of  what  had  once  been  a  pair  of  legs.  But  what 
nature  could  do  for  what  was  left  of  him  nature  had 
done.  He  had  the  neck,  the  arms,  and  the  torso  of 
a  Hercules.  His  coat,  black,  threadbare,  shining,  and 
unpleasantly  spotted,  seemed  on  the  point  of  giving 
way  here  and  there  to  a  system  of  restless  and  enor- 
mous muscles.  But  that  these  should  serve  no  better 
purpose  than  ceaselessly  to  turn  the  handle  of  an  un- 
usually diminutive  and  tuneless  street-organ  might 
have  roused  in  the  observer's  mind  doubts  as  to 
the  wisdom  and  vigilance  of  that  divine  providence 
which  is  so  much  better  understood  and  trusted  by 
the  healthy  and  fortunate  than  by  the  wretched,  the 
maimed,  and  the  diseased. 

For  the  most  part  the  legless  man  went  about  the 
business  of  begging  among  the  business  men  of  the 
city,  since  from  the  congested  slum  into  which  he 
disappeared  at  night  it  was  no  great  feat  for  a  man 
of  his  power  to  reach  the  more  northern  streets  of 
that  circle  in  whose  midst  the  finances  of  the  nation 
by  turns  simmer,  boil,  and  boil  over.  It  was  not 
unusual,  during  the  noon-time  rush  of  self-centred 


38  THE  PENALTY 

individuals,  for  the  legless  man  to  get  himself  stridden 
into  and  bowled  clean  over  upon  his  face  or  back, 
since  nothing  is  more  loosening  to  purse-strings  than 
the  average  man's  horror  at  having  injured  some 
creature  already  maimed;  nor  was  it  unusual  for 
him  at  such  times  to  scramble  up  smiling  with  a  kind 
of  invincible  cheerfulness  that  more  potently  stirred 
the  generosity  of  the  man  who  had  knocked  him  down 
than  ever  groans  and  complaints  could  have  done. 

If  the  weather  was  fine  and  conducive  to  bodily 
comfort,  the  beggar  sometimes  turned  north  and 
worked  his  way  to  Washington  Square  or  the  lower 
blocks  of  Fifth  Avenue.  Sometimes,  having  agreed 
to  pose  for  the  head  and  trunk  to  some  young  art 
student,  he  left  his  hand-organ  behind,  and  permitted 
himself  the  extravagance  of  riding  in  a  surface  car. 
His  boarding  of  a  street-car  was  a  feat  of  pure  gym- 
nastics, swift  and  virile;  so,  too,  was  his  ascending 
or  descending  of  a  flight  of  steps,  or  the  high  plat- 
form on  which  he  was  to  pose.  Incessant  practice, 
added  to  natural  skill  and  balance,  enabled  him  to 
accomplish,  without  legs,  feats  which  might  have 
balked  a  man  with  a  capable  and  energetic  pair  of 
them.  He  could  travel  upon  his  crutches  for  the 
length  of  a  city  block  almost  as  fast  as  the  average 
man  can  run,  and  if  it  came  to  climbing  a  rope  or  a 
rain-duct  he  was  more  ape  than  human.  In  his  own 
dwelling  he  had  for  his  own  use,  instead  of  the  labo- 
rious stairs  needed  by  its  other  inmates,  a  system  of 
knotted  ropes  by  which  he  could  ascend  from  cellar 


THE  PENALTY  39 

to  attic,  and  polished  poles  by  whose  aid  he  could 
accomplish  the  most  lightning-like  descending  slides. 

Marrow  Lane,  shaped  like  a  dog's  hind  leg,  is  one 
of  those  crooked  and  narrow  thoroughfares  which  the 
approaches  and  anchorings  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
have  cast  into  gloom  and  darkness.  There  are  spots 
upon  which  the  sun  will  not  shine  again  until  the 
great  bridge  has  perished;  there  are  corners  in  which 
drafts  strong  as  a  heaven-born  wind  whistle  from  one 
year's  end  to  the  other.  There  are  thousands  of  chil- 
dren in  the  region,  and  in  the  more  purely  tenement 
settlements  to  the  north,  who  have  yet  to  see  a  green 
field  or  to  handle  a  flower. 

At  the  very  crook  of  the  dog's  leg,  on  the  north 
side  of  Marrow  Lane,  a  narrow  door,  half  glazed  and 
sometimes  burnished  by  the  sun,  has  printed  across  it 
in  dingy  gilt  letters: 

BLIZZARD — MFR. 
HATS 

Once  the  door  with  the  faded  gilt  letters  had 
closed,  with  him  inside,  the  legless  man,  who  was 
none  other  than  Blizzard,  the  manufacturer  of  hats, 
put  off  those  airs  of  helplessness  and  humility  by 
which  so  many  coins  were  attracted  into  the  little 
tin  cup  upon  the  top  of  his  hand-organ,  and  assumed 
the  attitude  of  one  accustomed  to  command  and  to 
be  served,  to  reward  and  to  punish.  He  was  no 
longer  a  beggar,  but  a  magnate.  He  swelled  with 


40  THE  PENALTY 

power,  and  twenty  girls  of  almost  as  many  national- 
ities, plaiting  straw  hats  by  the  gas-light,  cringed  in 
their  hearts,  and  redoubled  the  speed  of  their  hands. 
About  the  twenty  girls  who  slaved  for  Blizzard  there 
were  two  peculiarities  which  at  once  distinguished 
them  from  any  other  collection  of  female  factory- 
hands  on  the  East  Side.  They  were  all  strong  and 
healthy  looking,  and  they  were  all  pretty.  He  had 
collected  them  much  as  rich  men  in  a  higher  station 
of  life  collect  paintings  or  pearls.  If  some  of  them 
bore  the  marks  of  blows  and  pinchings,  it  was  not 
upon  any  part  of  them  which  showed.  If  some  of 
them  suffered  from  the  fear  of  torture  or  even  sud- 
den death,  it  did  not  prevent  them  from  showing  the 
master  rows  of  even  white  teeth  between  ingratiat- 
ingly parted  lips  whenever  he  deigned  to  speak  to 
them.  If  any  girl  among  them  thought  to  escape 
him,  to  find  work  elsewhere,  to  betray  what  she 
knew  of  him,  even,  and  vanish  into  the  slums  of  some 
far  city,  she  was  deterred  by  the  memory  of  certain 
anecdotes  constantly  related  by  her  companions. 
The  most  terrible  of  these  anecdotes  was  that  re- 
lated of  a  certain  Florence  Magrue.  She  had  fled 
with  her  story  to  the  nearest  policeman,  who  had 
quietly  returned  her  to  the  shop,  reluctantly,  it  was 
admitted,  but  with  the  determination  of  a  man 
whose  very  existence  depends  upon  the  favor  of  an- 
other. The  master  had  welcomed  her  and  smiled 
upon  her  as  upon  an  erring  child.  He  had  sent  her 
upon  an  errand  into  the  cellar  under  the  shop,  him- 


THE  PENALTY  41 

self  unlocking  the  door.  And  that  was  the  last  that 
any  one  had  ever  seen  of  Florence  Magrue. 

In  addition  to  fear,  the  master  supplied  certain 
creature  comforts,  not  lightly  to  be  thrown  away. 
If  a  girl  could  make  up  her  mind  to  accept  shame, 
bodily  injury  if  she  displeased,  and  a  life  of  toil,  she 
fared  better  under  Blizzard's  direction  than  her 
sister  who  worked  for  Ecbaum,  let  us  say,  the  lace- 
maker,  or  Laskar,  or  any  of  a  thousand  East  Side 
employers  of  labor.  The  man  could  be  kind  upon 
impulse,  and  generous.  He  paid  the  highest  wages. 
He  supplied  nourishing  food  at  noon,  and  a  complete 
hour  in  which  to  discuss  it.  Furthermore,  if  a  girl 
pleased  him,  the  work  of  her  hands  was  subjected 
to  less  critical  inspection,  and  if  she  had  any  music 
in  her,  he  invited  her  upstairs  sometimes  to  work 
the  pedals  of  his  grand  piano,  while  his  own  power- 
ful, hairy  hands  rippled  and  thundered  upon  the 
keys.  He  was  of  a  Godlike  kindness  when  his 
mind  inclined  to  music,  and  the  pedalling  was  skilful 
and  sure.  But  let  the  unfortunate  crouched  under 
the  key-board,  her  trembling  hands  taking  the  place 
of  those  feet  which  the  master  had  lost,  respond 
stupidly  to  the  signals  conveyed  to  her  shoulder  by 
graduated  pressures  from  the  stump  of  his  right  leg, 
and  punishment  of  blows,  pinchings,  and  sarcasms 
was  swift  and  sure. 

The  legless  man  was  very  much  at  home  in  his  own 
house.  He  had  inhabited  it  for  many  years,  and  its 
arrangements  were  the  expression  of  a  creature  im- 


42  THE  PENALTY 

mensely  able  and  ingenious,  but  maimed  both  in 
body  and  soul. 

The  whole  building,  four  stories  tall,  had  once 
been  a  manufactory,  but  Blizzard  had  subdivided  its 
original  lofts  into  pens,  dens,  passageways,  and  rooms 
according  to  an  elaborate  plan  of  his  own.  And  it 
was  evident  to  the  most  casual  glance  that  expedi- 
ency alone,  untrammelled  by  any  consideration  of 
purse,  had  been  followed.  Those  walls,  floors,  and 
ceilings,  for  instance,  through  which  no  sound  of 
human  origin,  unaided  by  mechanical  device,  could 
penetrate,  must  have  cost  a  mint  of  money.  Nor 
could  any  man  who  depended  for  a  living  upon  occa- 
sional pennies  dropped  into  a  tin  cup  have  got  to- 
gether so  extensive  a  collection  of  books  upon  scien- 
tific subjects,  many  of  them  handsomely  bound  and 
printed  in  foreign  countries.  Works  upon  explo- 
sives, tunnelling,  electricity,  and  music  were  especially 
abundant,  not  only  in  English,  but  in  German.  And 
there  were  books  upon  the  organization  of  armies, 
and  upon  the  chemistry  of  precious  stones.  A  cur- 
sory examination  of  his  books  would  have  found  the 
master  of  the  house  to  be  interested  also  in  obstetrics, 
in  poisons,  and  in  anaesthesia;  but  of  romance,  hu- 
manity, or  poetry  his  library  had  but  a  single  example, 
the  "Monte  Cristo"  of  the  elder  Dumas. 

Had  all  the  doors  and  windows  of  the  house  been 
thrown  open,  and  all  its  inhabitants  expelled,  so  that 
you  could  have  free  ingress  with  a  companion  or  two, 
and  time  and  the  mood  to  explore  the  whole  of  its 


THE  PENALTY  43 

ramifications  and  arrangements,  you  must  have  con- 
cluded that  the  designer  of  so  much  that  was  hide- 
ously obvious  and  so  much  that  was  mysteriously 
obscure  was  a  most  extraordinary  example  of  vicious- 
ness,  ability,  purpose,  and  musicianship.  You  must 
have  been  staggered  at  passing  from  a  room  contain- 
ing a  grand  piano  and  a  bust  of  Beethoven  to  find 
yourself  in  a  little  operating-theatre  such  as  any 
eminent  surgeon  might  wish  to  be  at  work  in,  to  find 
beyond  this  a  small  but  excellently  appointed  gym- 
nasium; above  this,  to  be  reached  only  by  climbing 
a  knotted  rope,  a  long  room,  lighted  from  above, 
containing  drawing-tables,  many  cases  of  drawing- 
instruments,  and  a  host  of  workman-like  designs  and 
specifications.  Thence  you  might  pass,  still  wonder- 
ing, into  an  apartment  of  soft  divans,  thick  rugs,  and 
open  fireplace,  a  smell  of  incense,  double  windows 
and  double  doors. 

Or  you  might  descend  by  stairs  or  polished  poles 
to  the  cellar  under  the  hat  factory,  and  find  yourself, 
prying  into  the  most  obscure  corner  and  lighting 
matches  for  guidance,  confronted  by  the  door  of  a 
mightily  strong  safety  vault,  the  knobs  of  the  com- 
bination lock  bright  and  easily  turned.  And  you 
might  say:  "Well,  it's  either  the  house  of  a  man 
whose  scheme  of  life  is  utterly  beyond  my  compre- 
hension, or  of  a  madman." 


VII 


OF  the  two  persons  who  left  their  homes  this  morn- 
ing, the  legless  beggar,  owing  to  having  ridden  part 
of  the  way  in  a  street-car,  was  the  first  to  reach  the 
northeast  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Washington 
Square,  whence  the  last  rear-guard  of  fashion  in  old 
New  York  retreats  before  the  advance-pickets  of  the 
encroaching  slums,  like  a  stag  before  a  pack  of  hounds. 
Here  he  ensconced  himself,  placed  his  tin  cup  on  the 
top  of  his  organ,  together  with  the  few  pairs  of  shoe- 
laces which  proclaimed  him  a  merchant  within  rather 
than  a  beggar  without  the  law,  and  proceeded  to 
enliven  the  still  quiet  neighborhood  with  the  dread- 
fully strained  measure  of  Verdi's  "Miserere."  He 
turned  the  handles  of  the  little  organ  fitfully,  so  that 
now  the  strains  of  sorrow  arose  at  such  long  intervals 
as  hardly  to  be  connected  with  one  another,  and  now 
all  huddled  and  jumbled  like  notes  in  a  barbaric 
quickstep,  and  as  he  played  he  addressed  his  instru- 
ment in  a  quiet,  cruel  voice. 

A  house-maid  opened  a  window  in  the  servants' 
wing  of  No.  i  Fifth  Avenue.  Blizzard  turned  his 
head  slowly  at  the  sound,  and  looked  up  at  her  with 
agate  eyes,  coldly  interrogative.  There  was  no  one 
else  at  the  moment  within  earshot. 

Nevertheless  before  speaking  the  house-maid  looked 

44 


THE  PENALTY  45 

nervously  into  the  house  behind  her;  then  up  the 
avenue,  and  down  into  Washington  Square.  She 
was  a  girl  of  some  beauty,  but  her  face  was  most  en- 
gaging from  a  kind  of  waggish  intelligence  that  it  had. 

"Tst!"  she  said. 

The  organ  squeaked  and  rattled.  It  was  ma- 
noeuvring for  a  position  from  which  to  attack  the 
"Danse  Macabre."  Blizzard  indicated  by  a  lift  of 
heavy  eyebrows  that  he  was  all  attention. 

"You  can  trust  Blake,"  she  said. 

Blizzard  grunted.    "  Send  him  to  me  at  six." 

"Marrow  Lane?" 

He  nodded,  and  turned  from  her  with  an  air  of 
finality.  The  house-maid  hesitated,  drew  a  long 
breath,  pulled  in  her  head,  and  closed  the  window. 

A  loose-jointed  man  in  clerical  garb  came  hurry- 
ing down  the  avenue.  He  made  longer  swings  with 
his  right  arm  and  longer  strides  with  his  right  leg 
than  with  his  left.  He  had  a  white,  thin  face,  and 
a  look  of  worry  and  anxiety.  He  was  perhaps  dis- 
tressed to  think  that  the  world  contained  many  souls 
to  whose  salvation  he  would  never  be  able  to  attend. 
Perceiving  the  legless  beggar,  he  stopped  hurrying, 
sought  in  his  pocket,  and  found  a  few  pennies.  These 
he  dropped  into  the  tin  cup. 

"  God  bless  you,  reverend  sir,"  said  the  beggar  in  a 
voice  of  deep  irony. 

"Don't,"  said  the  clergyman.  He  managed  to 
look  the  beggar  in  the  eyes.  "How  many  hats  have 
we?"  he  asked  in  a  quick  whisper. 


46  THE  PENALTY 

"We're  on  our  fourth  thousand." 

The  clergyman  was  visibly  upset.  "Six  thousand 
to  go,"  he  muttered.  "I  shall  be  caught." 

The  beggar  smiled.  "Come  to  me  at  six- thirty," 
he  said. 

The  man  of  God's  eyes  brightened.  "You'll  help 
me  again?" 

"Tst,"  said  the  beggar.  "Move  on.  Here's  a 
plain-clothes  man." 

The  shepherd  moved  on  as  if  he  had  been  pricked  by 
an  awl,  since  it  was  not  among  the  police  that  he  felt 
called  upon  to  separate  the  black  sheep  from  the  white. 

The  plain-clothes  man  approached  loitering.  He 
might  have  been  a  citizen  in  good  standing  and  with 
nothing  better  to  do  than  hobnob  with  whatever  per- 
sons interested  him  upon  his  idle  saunterings. 

"How  many  pairs  of  laces  have  you  sold  this 
morning?  "  he  asked. 

"Nary  a  pair,  charitable  sir,"  returned  the  beggar. 

"Speaking  of  shoe-laces,"  said  the  plain-clothes 
man,  "what  is  your  opinion  of  head-gear?" 

"Bullish,"  said  the  beggar.  "Straw  hats  will  be 
worn  next  winter." 

The  eyes  of  both  men  sparkled  with  a  curious  ex- 
hilaration. The  plain-clothes  man  drew  a  deep  and 
sudden  breath,  and  appeared  to  shiver.  So  a  soldier 
may  breathe  at  the  command  to  charge;  so  a  thor- 
oughbred shivers  when  the  barrier  is  about  to  fall. 

"There  will  be  nice  pickings,"  said  the  beggar; 
"there  will  be  enough  geese  to  feed  ten  thousand." 


THE  PENALTY  47 

The  plain-clothes  man  dropped  a  penny  into  the 
tin  cup.  "By  the  way,"  he  asked  professionally, 
" where  can  I  lay  hands  on  Red  Monday?" 

The  beggar  shook  his  strong  head  curtly.  "Hands 
off,"  he  said. 

"When  did  he  join  the  church?" 

"Last  night,  with  tears  and  confession.  A  strong 
man  Red,  now  that  he  has  seen  the  light." 

The  plain-clothes  man  laughed  and  passed  on,  still 
loitering. 

The  "Danse  Macabre"  had  come  to  a  timely  end, 
if  that  which  is  without  tempo  may  be  said  to  have 
any  relation  with  time,  and  the  trio  of  Chopin's 
"Funeral  March"  was  already  in  uneven  progress. 
The  legless  man  sat  on  the  bare  pavement,  his  back 
against  the  handsome  area  railing  of  No.  i  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  steadily  revolved  the  mechanism  of  the 
organ  with  his  hairy,  powerful  hand. 

Passers  were  now  more  frequent.  Some  looked  at 
him  and  continued  to  look  after  they  had  passed, 
others  turned  their  eyes  steadfastly  away.  Some 
pitied  him  because  he  was  a  cripple;  others,  upon 
suddenly  discovering  that  he  had  no  legs,  were  shocked 
with  a  sudden  indecent  hatred  of  him.  A  lassie  of 
the  Salvation  Army  invited  him  to  rise  up  and  fol- 
low Christ;  he  retorted  by  urging  her  to  lie  down 
and  take  a  rest.  Then,  as  if  premonition  had  laid 
strong  hands  upon  him  and  twisted  him  about,  he 
turned,  and  looked  upward  into  the  fresh,  rosy  face 
of  Barbara  Ferris. 


48  THE  PENALTY 

Their  eyes  met.  Always  the  child  of  impulse,  and 
careless  of  appearance  and  opinion,  she  felt  her 
thoughts,  none  too  cheerful  or  optimistic  that  morn- 
ing during  her  long  walk  down  the  avenue,  drawn  by 
the  expression  upon  the  legless  man's  face  to  a  sudden 
focus  of  triumph  and  solution.  She  struck  the  palm 
of  one  small  workman-like  hand  with  the  back  of  the 
other,  and  exclaimed:  "By  George!" 

The  face  that  was  upturned  to  hers  was  no  longer 
the  insolent,  heavy  face  of  success  which  we  have 
attempted  to  describe,  but  one  in  which  the  sudden 
leaping  into  evidence  of  a  soul  dismissed  facts  of 
color,  contour,  and  line  as  matters  of  no  importance. 
If  there  was  wickedness  in  his  glance,  there  were  also 
awe  and  wonder.  He  had  a  tortured  look,  the  look 
of  a  man  who  has  fallen  from  unknowable  heights — 
from  an  Elysium  which  he  regrets  and  desires  with 
all  a  strong  man's  strength,  but  to  which  the  way 
back  is  irrevocably  barred  by  the  degradation  and 
the  sin  of  the  descent — and  who,  all  but  overwhelmed 
by  the  knowledge  that  he  can  never  return  whence 
he  came,  yet  bears  his  eternal  loss  with  an  iron  cour- 
age that  has  about  it  a  kind  of  splendor. 

Barbara  Ferris  felt  that  she  was  looking  upon 
Satan  in  that  moment  when  he  first  realized  that  his 
fall  from  heaven  was  for  eternity  and  that,  against 
every  torturing  passion  of  conviction,  he  must  turn 
his  talents  and  his  fearful  courage  to  the  needs  of  hell. 

In  that  first  moment  of  their  meeting,  she  realized 
nothing  about  the  man  but  the  terribly  moving  ex- 


THE  PENALTY  49 

pression  of  his  face.  Nothing  else  mattered.  If  her 
plastic  training  was  equal  to  catching  and  fixing  that 
expression  in  clay  or  marble,  she  would  be  made  ac- 
cording to  the  mould  of  her  ambition.  The  flame  of 
art  burned  white  and  clear  in  the  inmost  shrine  of 
her  being.  She  saw  before  her,  and  beneath  her,  not 
a  human  being,  but  an  inspiration.  And  since  in- 
spiration is  a  thing  swift,  electric,  and  trebly  enticing 
from  the  fact  that  it  presents  itself  shorn  of  all  those 
difficulties  which  afterward,  during  execution,  so  ter- 
ribly appear  and  multiply,  her  heart  beat  already 
with  the  exquisite  bliss  of  an  immortal  achievement. 
In  her  vocabulary  at  that  instant  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  discover  under  B  the  aggressive  But, 
or  under  I  the  faltering  If.  She  was  inspired.  It 
was  enough. 

Then  she,  in  whose  mind  strong  wings  had  sud- 
denly sprouted,  perceived  that  the  person  directly 
responsible  had  not  even  a  pair  of  legs,  and  felt 
throughout  her  whole  being  a  cold  gushing  of  horror 
and  revolt. 

This  was  not  lost  upon  Blizzard.  It  was  an  ordi- 
nary enough  human  sensation,  whose  reflections  had 
often  enough  given  the  iron  that  was  in  his  soul 
another  twist  and  refreshed  in  him  vengefulness  and 
hatred.  Yet  on  the  present  occasion  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  physically  loathed  roused  in  the  man  a 
feeling  rather  of  that  despair  which  may  be  experi- 
enced by  the  drowning  at  that  precise  moment  when 
the  straw  so  eagerly  clutched  has  proved  itself  a 


50  THE  PENALTY 

straw,  and  he  winced  as  beneath  a  shocking  blow 
between  the  eyes. 

On  discovering  that  the  creature  was  maimed  it 
had  been  Barbara's  first  impulse  to  pass  swiftly  on. 
But  another  glance  at  the  face  which  had  arrested 
her  held  her.  She  took  some  coins  from  her  purse 
and  dropped  them  into  the  tin  cup  which  the  beggar 
held  out  to  her.  And  he  looked  upward  into  her 
face. 

"Did  you  ever  pose  for  any  one?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  miss." 

"I  should  like  to  make  a  bust  of  you.  I'll  see  that 
it  pays  you  better  than — better  than  earning  a  living 
this  way." 

For  the  first  time  Blizzard  smiled.  "Do  you  want 
me  to  come  now?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "My  studio  is  in  No.  17  McBur- 
ney  Place."  Here  she  stopped  upon  a  somewhat  em- 
barrassing thought.  But  the  legless  man  read  what 
was  in  her  mind. 

"Two  flights  up?"  he  queried.  "Three?  I  can 
climb.  Don't  trouble  about  that." 

"You  will  come  as  soon  as  you  can?" 

"I  have  to  meet  a  man  here  in  half  an  hour.  Then 
I'll  come." 

"Please,"  she  said,  "ask  for  Miss  Ferris." 

At  the  name  a  tremor  went  through  the  legless 
man  from  head  to  stump.  He  blanched,  and  for  the 
thousandth  part  of  a  second  all  that  was  devil  in 
him  rushed  with  smouldering  lights  to  his  eyes.  But 


She  took  some  coins  from  her  purse 
and  dropped  them  into  the  tin  cup 


52  THE  PENALTY 

And  here,  one  morning,  Dr.  Ferris,  interested  in 
spite  of  himself  in  her  swift  progress,  found  her,  with 
a  number  of  other  young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  ear- 
nestly at  work  making,  from  different  angles  of  vision, 
greenish  clay  statuettes  of  a  handsome  young  Italian 
laborer  who  had  upon  his  person  no  clothes  whatever. 
That  fastidious  surgeon,  to  whom  naked  bodies,  and 
indeed  naked  hearts,  could  have  been  nothing  new, 
was  shocked  almost  out  of  his  wits.  He  had  left 
only  the  good  sense  and  the  good  manners  not  to 
make  a  scene.  He  beat  instead  a  quiet,  if  substan- 
tial, retreat,  and  put  off  the  hour  of  reckoning.  His 
daughter  was  soiled  in  his  eyes,  and  when  she  ex- 
plained to  him  that  a  naked  man  was  not  a  naked 
man  to  her,  but  a  "stunning"  assemblage  of  planes, 
angles,  curves,  lights,  and  shadows,  he  could  not  un- 
derstand. And  they  quarrelled  as  furiously  as  it  is 
possible  for  well-bred  persons  to  quarrel.  He  com- 
manded. She  denied  his  right  to  command.  He 
threatened.  She  denied  his  right  first  to  create  a 
life,  and  then  to  spoil  it.  He  advanced  the  duty  of 
children  to  parents,  and  she  the  duty  of  parents  to 
children.  Finally  Barbara,  thoroughly  incensed  at 
having  her  mind  and  her  ambition  held  so  cheap, 
flung  out  with:  "Have  you  never  made  a  mistake  of 
judgment?"  And  was  astounded  to  see  her  father 
wither,  you  may  say,  and  all  in  an  instant  show  the 
first  tremors  she  had  ever  seen  in  him  of  age  and  a 
life  of  immense  strain  and  responsibility.  From  that 
moment  the  activity  of  his  opposition  waned.  She 


THE  PENALTY  53 

knew  that  her  will  had  conquered,  and  the  knowledge 
distressed  her  so  that  she  burst  into  tears. 

"My  dear,"  said  her  father,  "I  once  made  a  very 
terrible  mistake  of  judgment.  There  isn't  a  day  of 
my  life  altogether  free  from  remorse  and  regret.  I 
have  given  you  money  and  position.  It  isn't  enough, 
it  seems.  My  dear,  take  the  benefit  of  the  doubt 
into  the  bargain.  If  I  am  making  another  terrible 
mistake,  you  must  bear  at  least  a  portion  of  the 
responsibility." 

It  is  curious,  or  perhaps  only  natural,  that  Barbara 
was  at  the  moment  more  interested  to  know  what 
her  father's  great  mistake  of  judgment  had  been  than 
in  the  fact  that  her  ambition  had  won  his  tolerance 
and  consent,  if  not  his  approval  and  support.  If  she 
had  asked  him  then  and  there,  for  he  was  still  greatly 
moved,  he  might  have  told  her,  but  reticence  caught 
the  question  by  the  wings,  and  the  moment  passed. 

And  they  resumed  together  their  life  of  punctilious 
thoughtfulness  and  good  manners.  Dr.  Ferris  con- 
tinued to  cut  up  famous  bodies  for  famous  fees,  while 
Barbara  continued  to  do  what  she  could  to  reproduce 
the  bodies  of  more  humble  persons,  for  no  reward 
greater  than  the  voice  of  her  teacher  with  his  variously 
intonated:  "Go  to  eet,  Mees  Barbara!  go  to  eet." 


VIII 

IT  was  a  discouraged  but  resolute  Barbara  who 
stepped  forth  from  her  father's  house  that  bright 
morning  in  May  and  passed  rather  than  walked  down 
the  quiet  upper  stretches  of  Fifth  Avenue.  That 
she  might  fail  in  art,  and  make  a  mess  of  her  life 
generally,  sometimes  occurred  to  her.  And  it  was  a 
thought  which  immeasurably  distressed  her.  It  would 
be  too  dreadful  a  humiliation  to  crawl  back  into  the 
place  which  she  had  so  confidently  quitted  for  a  bet- 
ter; to  be  pointed  out  as  a  distinguished  amateur  who 
had  not  succeeded  as  a  professional;  and  to  take  up 
once  more  the  rounds  of  dinners,  dances,  and  sports 
which  serve  so  well  to  keep  the  purposeless  young 
and  ignorant. 

To  society  the  tragedy  of  Barbara's  back-sliding 
into  art  was  very  real.  Dozens  of  men  said  very 
frankly  that  they  missed  her  like  the  very  devil. 
"There  is  nobody  else,"  they  said,  "quite  so  straight- 
forward, or  quite  so  good-looking." 

Hers  was  a  face  not  less  vivid  than  a  light.  It 
seemed  that  in  her,  the  greatest  artist  of  all,  abandon- 
ing the  accepted  conventions  of  beauty,  had  created 
an  original  masterpiece.  If  she  had  been  too  thin, 
her  eyes,  tranquil,  sea-blue,  and  shining,  must  have 
been  too  large.  Her  nose  was  Phidian  Greek;  her 

54 


THE  PENALTY  55 

chin,  but  for  an  added  youthful  tenderness,  was  al- 
most a  replica  of  Madame  Duse's;  a  long  round  throat 
carried  nobly  a  gallant  round  head,  upon  which  the 
hair  was  of  three  distinct  colors.  The  brown  in  the 
Master's  workshop  had  not,  it  seemed,  held  out;  she 
had  been  finished  with  tones  of  amber  and  deep  red. 
The  brown  was  straight,  the  red  waved,  the  amber 
rioted  in  curls  and  tendrils.  Below  this  exquisite 
massing  of  line  and  color,  against  a  low  broad  fore- 
head, were  set,  crookedly,  short  narrow  eyebrows  of 
an  intense  black;  her  eyelashes  were  of  the  same 
divine  inkiness,  very  warm  and  long;  a  mouth  level 
to  the  world,  resolute,  at  the  corners  a  little  smiling, 
was  scarlet  against  a  smooth  field  of  golden-brown. 

If  she  had  a  certain  admiration  of  her  own  beauty 
it  was  the  admiration  of  an  artist  for  the  beauty  of  a 
stranger.  Since  she  had  had  neither  hand  nor  say  in 
her  own  making,  the  results  were  neither  to  her  credit 
nor  against  it.  For  success  in  her  chosen  line  she 
would  have  exchanged  her  beauty  very  willingly  for 
a  plain  mask,  her  glorious  youth  for  a  sedate  middle 
age.  She  would  have  given  perhaps  an  eye,  an  ear, 
or  so  at  least  she  thought  in  this  ardent  and  generous 
period  of  early  beginnings  and  insatiable  ambition. 
In  her  thoughts  nothing  seemed  to  matter  to  her  but 
art. 

There  was  no  sustaining  pleasure  in  the  fact  that 
her  father  had  given  in  to  her.  Opposition — un- 
spoken, it  is  true,  but  not  to  be  mistaken — remained 
in  his  attitude  toward  her.  He  found  indirect  means 


56  THE  PENALTY 

for  conveying  his  idea  and  that  of  her  friends  that 
she  was  wasting  herself  upon  a  folly,  and  was  destined, 
if  she  persisted  in  it,  to  only  the  most  mediocre  suc- 
cess. An  exhibition  of  her  works,  undertaken  with 
the  avowed  wish  to  know  "just  where  she  stood," 
had  been  discouraging  in  its  results.  The  art  critics 
either  refused  to  take  her  seriously  or  expressed  the 
opinion  that  there  were  already  in  the  world  too 
many  sculptors  of  distinguished  technique  and  no 
imagination  whatsoever.  Her  friends  told  her  that 
she  was  a  "wonder."  And  there  were  little  incidents 
of  the  farce  which  caused  her  to  bite  her  lips  in 
humiliation. 

That  the  critics  should  be  at  the  pains  of  telling 
her  that  she  was  without  imagination  angered  her, 
since  it  was  a  fact  already  better  known  to  herself. 
And  in  one  moment  she  would  determine  at  all  costs 
to  prove  herself  an  imaginative  artist,  and  in  the 
next  "to  chuck  the  whole  business."  But  she  could 
not  make  up  her  mind  whether  it  is  worse  for  a  cap- 
tain to  wait  for  actual  defeat  or,  having  perceived  its 
inevitability,  to  surrender.  To  go  down  with  colors 
flying  appeals  perhaps  to  noble  sides  of  man;  but  it 
is  a  waste  of  ships,  lives,  and  treasure. 

Passing  swiftly  down  the  avenue,  she  did  not  know 
whether,  upon  arriving  at  her  studio  in  McBurney 
Place,  she  should  get  into  her  working-apron  or  make 
an  end,  once  and  for  all,  of  artistic  pursuits.  But 
with  the  lifting  of  the  legless  beggar's  face  to  hers, 
all  doubts  vanished  from  her  mind  like  smoke  from 


THE  PENALTY  57 

a  room  when  the  windows  and  doors  are  opened. 
Whatever  his  face  might  have  revealed  to  another, 
to  her  it  was  Satan's,  newly  fallen,  and  she  read  into 
it  a  whole  wonder  of  sin,  tragedy,  desolation,  and 
courage;  and  knew  well  that  if  she  could  reproduce 
what  she  seemed  to  see,  the  world  would  be  grateful 
to  her.  She  would  give  it  a  face  which  it  would 
never  make  an  end  of  discussing,  which  should  be 
in  sculpture  what  the  face  of  Mona  Lisa  is  in  paint- 
ing. It  would  be  the  face  of  a  man  whom  one  jury 
would  hang  upon  the  merest  suspicion;  for  whom 
another  would  return  a  verdict  of  "not  guilty"  no 
matter  what  the  nature  of  his  proved  crimes;  and 
whether  the  face  was  beautiful  or  hideous  would  be  a 
matter  of  dispute  for  the  ages. 

Upon  arriving  at  No.  17  McBurney  Place,  and 
having  climbed  two  flights  of  stairs,  the  door  of  her 
studio  was  opened  before  she  could  lay  hand  to  the 
knob,  and  a  very  small  boy  with  very  big  eyes,  and 
no  more  flesh  upon  his  bones  than  served  to  distin- 
guish him  from  a  living  skeleton,  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  smiling,  you  may  say,  from  head  to  foot. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  blue  suit  with  bobbed  tails  and 
a  double  row  of  bright  brass  buttons  down  the  front, 
and  when  she  had  gathered  him  from  the  gutter  in 
which  he  had  reached  to  his  present  stunted  stature, 
a  child  half  gone  in  pneumonia,  he  had  told  her  that 
his  name,  his  whole  name,  was  "Bubbles"  and  noth- 
ing but  "Bubbles." 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Barbara,"  he  said;  "the 


58  THE  PENALTY 

plumber's  bin  and  gone,  and  the  feller  from  the  hard- 
ware store  has  swore  he'll  be  around  before  noon  to 
fix  the  new  knobs  in  the  doors." 

"Good!"  said  Barbara.    "Well  done,  Bubbles." 

And  she  passed  into  the  studio,  wondering  why  a 
little  face  all  knotting  with  smiles,  affection,  and  the 
pleasure  of  commands  lovingly  received  and  well 
obeyed,  should  remind  her  of  that  other  face,  massive, 
sardonic,  lost,  satanic,  which  had  looked  up  into  hers 
across  the  battered  tin  cup  on  the  top  of  a  battered 
street-organ.  She  turned  to  a  little  clay  head  that 
she  had  made  recently  and  for  which  Bubbles  had 
sat;  touched  it  here  and  there,  stepped  back  from 
it,  turned  her  own  head  to  the  left,  to  the  right,  and 
even,  such  was  the  concentration  of  her  mood, 
showed  between  her  red  lips  the  tip  of  a  still  redder 
tongue.  But  no  matter  what  she  did  to  test  and 
undo  her  first  impression  there  persisted  between  the 
two  faces  a  certain  likeness,  though  in  just  what  this 
resemblance  consisted  she  was  unable  to  say. 

"Bubbles,"  she  said,  "you  were  telling  me  about 
beggars  the  other  day  and  how  much  they  make,  and 
how  rich  some  of  them  are.  Did  you  ever  run  across 
one  that  sells  shoe-laces,  plays  a  hand-organ,  and 
hasn't  got  any  legs?" 

"Sure,"  said  he;  "there's  half  a  dozen  in  the  city." 
And  he  named  them.  "Burbage:  he's  the  real 
thing,  got  his  legs  took  off  by  a  cannon-ball  in  the 
wars.  Prior:  he  ain't  no  'count.  Drunk  and  fell 
under  a  elevated  train.  He  ain't  saved  nothing 


THE  PENALTY  59 

neither.  He  drinks  his.  Echmeyer:  he's  some  Jew; 
worth  every  cent  of  fifty  thousand  dollars.  They 
calls  him  congeneyetul,  'cause  he  was  born  with  his 
legs  lef  off  him.  Fun  Barnheim:  he's  German,  went 
asleep  in  the  shade  of  a  steam-roller,  and  never  woke 
up  till  his  legs  was  rolled  out  flat  as  a  pair  of  pants 
that's  just  bin  ironed.  Then  o'  course  there's  Bliz- 
zard." 

Barbara  was  smiling.  "What  became  of  his  legs, 
Bubbles?" 

"God  knows,"  returned  the  boy.  "Blizzard  don't 
boast  about  it  like  the  others.  But  he  ain't  no  com- 
mon beggar.  He's  a  man." 

"A  good  man?" 

"Good?  He  ain't  got  a  kinder  thought  in  his 
block  than  settin'  fire  to  houses  and  killin'  people. 
But  when  he  says  'step,'  it  steps." 

"It?" 

"The  East  Side,  Miss  Barbara.  He's  the  whole 
show." 

"What  does  he  look  like?" 

The  boy  at  first  thought  in  vain  for  a  simile,  and 
then,  having  found  one  to  his  liking,  emitted  with 
great  earnestness  that  the  beggar,  Blizzard,  looked 
exactly  like  "the  wrath  of  God."  Whatever  the 
boy's  simile  may  convey  to  the  reader,  to  Barbara, 
fresh  from  seeing  the  man  himself,  it  had  a  wonder- 
ful aptness. 

"That's  my  man,"  she  exclaimed.  "Blizzard! 
He's  got  a  wonderful  face,  Bubbles,  and  you  said  just 


60  THE  PENALTY 

what  it  looks  like.  I'm  going  to  make  a  bust  of 
him." 

"He's  coming  here?" 

"Yes.    Why  not?" 

The  boy  was  troubled.  "Miss  Barbara,"  he  said 
earnestly,  "I  wouldn't  go  for  to  touch  that  man 
with  a  ten-foot  pole." 

"I  sha'n't  touch  him,  except  with  compasses  to 
take  measurements.  He's  civil-spoken  enough." 

"He's  bad,"  said  Bubbles,  "bad.  And  when  I 
say  bad,  I  mean  millions  of  things  that  you  never 
heard  tell  of,  and  never  will.  If  he  comes  in  here — 
and,  and  raises  hell,  don't  blame  me." 

Barbara  laughed.  "He  will  come  here,  and  sit  per- 
fectly still,"  she  said,  "until  he  wishes  he  was  dead. 
And  then  he  will  receive  money,  and  an  invitation 
to  come  to-morrow.  And  then  he  will  go  away." 

Bubbles  looked  unnaturally  solemn  and  dejected. 

"Besides,"  said  Barbara,  "I  have  you  to  protect 
me." 

Though  Bubbles  made  no  boast,  a  world  of  resolu- 
tion swept  into  his  great  eyes,  and  you  knew  by  the 
simultaneous  rising  toward  his  chin  of  all  the  buttons 
upon  the  front  of  his  jacket  that  he  had  drawn  the 
long  breath  of  courage,  and  stiffened  the  articulations 
of  his  spine. 

Barbara's  studio  was  a  large,  high-ceilinged  room, 
whose  north  wall  was  almost  entirely  composed  of 
glass.  It  was  singularly  bare  of  those  hangings, 
lanterns,  antique  cabinets,  carved  chairs,  scraps  of 


THE  PENALTY  61 

brocade,  brass  candle-sticks  six  or  seven  feet  high, 
samovars,  pewter  porringers,  spinning-wheels,  etc., 
etc.,  upon  which  so  many  artists  appear  to  depend 
for  comfort  and  inspiration.  Nor  were  there  any 
notable  collections  of  dust,  or  fragments  of  meals,  or 
dirty  plates.  There  was  neither  a  Winged  Victory, 
a  Venus  de  Milo,  nor  a  Hermes  after  Praxiteles.  And 
except  for  the  bust  of  Bubbles  there  was  no  example 
of  Barbara's  own  work  by  which  to  fish  for  stray 
compliments  from  the  casual  visitor.  Of  the  amen- 
ities the  studio  had  but  a  thick  carpet,  an  open  fire- 
place, and  a  pair  of  plain  but  easy  chairs.  Upon  a 
strong  tremorless  table  placed  near  the  one  great 
window,  a  huge  lump  of  clay,  swathed  in  damp  cloths, 
alone  served  to  denote  the  occupant's  avocation. 

Off  the  studio,  however,  Barbara  had  a  pleasantly 
furnished  room  in  which  she  might  loaf,  make  tea,  or 
serve  a  meal,  and  this  in  turn  was  separated  from  the 
tiny  room  in  which  Bubbles  slept,  by  a  small  but 
practical  kitchen. 

Barbara  having  withdrawn  to  roll  up  her  sleeves 
and  put  on  her  work-apron,  the  legless  beggar  arrived 
in  silence  at  the  outer  door  of  the  studio,  and  having 
drawn  a  long  breath,  knocked,  and  Bubbles,  not  with- 
out an  uncomfortable  fluttering  of  the  heart,  pulled 
it  open.  The  boy  and  the  beggar,  being  about  the 
same  height,  looked  each  other  in  the  face  with  level 
eyes. 

"So"  said  Blizzard,  "this  is  what  has  become  of 
you.  You  were  reported  dead." 


62  THE  PENALTY 

"No,  sir,"  said  Bubbles,  "I  wasn't  dead,  only  sick. 
She  brought  me  here,  and  had  her  own  father  and  a 
nurse  to  take  care  of  me.  And  now  I'm  Buttons." 
And  he  went  on  glibly:  "Come  right  in;  Miss  Ferris 
is  expecting  you.  I  guess  she  wants  you  to  sit  on 
the  platform  over  in  the  window." 

Blizzard,  having  unslung  his  hand-organ  and  slid 
it  with  a  show  of  petulance  into  a  corner,  crossed 
the  room,  swinging  strongly  and  easily  between  his 
crutches,  like  a  fine  piece  of  machinery,  climbed  upon 
the  model's  platform,  and  seated  himself  in  the  plain 
deal  chair  which  already  occupied  it.  From  this  point 
of  vantage  he  turned  and  looked  down  at  the  boy. 

"So,"  he  said,  "her  father  is  Dr.  Ferris." 

"He's  the  Dr.  Ferris,"  Bubbles  returned  loyally. 

"So — so — so,"  said  the  legless  one  slowly,  and  he 
closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment  as  if  he  was  tired.  Then, 
opening  them,  and  in  abrupt  tones:  "Pay  you  well?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Many  people  come  here?" 

Bubbles,  who  had  gone  to  school — not  in  the 
schools,  but  in  the  city  of  New  York  itself — could  lie 
without  the  least  tremor  or  change  of  feature,  and 
with  remarkable  suddenness.  ' '  Lots  and  lots  of  'em, ' ' 
he  said.  "She's  well  known." 

Blizzard  merely  grunted.    "Tell  her  I've  come." 

But  it  was  not  necessary  for  Bubbles  to  give  the 
message  at  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  since  at  that 
moment  Barbara  entered,  her  round  arms  bare  to 
the  elbow  and  her  street  dress  completely  hidden  by 


THE  PENALTY  63 

a  sort  of  blue  gingham  overall.  Bubbles,  whose  pres- 
ence was  not  required  during  working  hours,  at  once 
withdrew  to  his  bedroom. 

Here  he  changed  his  tunic  of  brass  buttons  for  a 
plain  gray  jacket,  snatched  his  cap  from  its  hook, 
gained  the  street  by  a  back  stair,  and  set  off  at  the 
tireless  street-boy  trot  that  eats  up  the  blocks.  Half 
an  hour  later  he  returned,  his  face  no  longer  wear- 
ing a  look  of  anxiety,  changed  back  into  his  many- 
buttoned  jacket  of  dependence,  and  sitting  upon  his 
bed,  his  back  against  the  pillows,  proceeded  with 
astonishing  deftness  and  precision  to  figure  with  the 
stump  of  a  pencil,  upon  the  leaves  of  a  small  dog- 
eared note-book.  Then,  appearing  to  have  achieved 
a  satisfactory  solution  of  whatever  problem  he  had 
had  occasion  to  attack,  he  began  to  go  through  a 
series  of  restless  fidgetings,  which  ended  with  a  sigh 
of  relief  and  a  guilty  look,  and  producing  from  a 
hiding-place  a  cigarette,  he  smoked  it  out  of  the 
window,  so  that  his  room  might  not  carry  forward 
the  faintest  trace  of  its  telltale  odor.  • 


IX 


WHEN  Barbara  at  length  told  the  legless  man  that  he 
might  rest,  he  appeared  to  think  that  she  had  in- 
vited him  to  converse.  He  leaned  back  as  far  as 
he  could  in  the  deal  chair.  His  expression  was  no 
longer  that  which  had  struck  Barbara  so  hard  in  the 
imagination,  but  one  of  easy  and  alert  affability. 
He  looked  at  her  when  he  spoke,  or  when  she  spoke, 
but  casually  and  without  offence.  Whatever  feelings 
surged  in  him  were  for  the  moment  carefully  con- 
trolled and  put  aside.  In  his  manner  was  neither 
obtrusiveness  nor  servility,  only  a  kind  of  well- 
schooled  ease  and  directness.  In  short,  he  behaved 
and  spoke  like  a  gentleman. 

"You're  the  first  person  I  ever  sat  for,"  he  said, 
"who  hasn't  asked  me  how  I  lost  my  legs." 

Barbara,  regarding  the  rough  blocking  of  his  head 
which  she  had  made,  smiled  amiably.  That  first 
impression  of  him,  still  vivid  and  lucid  in  her  mind, 
appeared  already,  almost  of  its  own  accord,  to  have 
registered  itself  in  the  lump  of  clay.  And  she  could 
not  but  feel  that  she  had  laid  the  groundwork  of  a 
masterpiece.  If  the  beggar  wished  to  converse,  she 
would  converse — anything  to  keep  him  in  the  mood 
for  returning  to  pose  as  often  as  she  should  have  need 
of  him.  And  so,  though  entirely  absorbed  by  the 
face  which  she  had  found,  and  at  the  moment  almost 

64 


THE  PENALTY  65 

uncharitably  indifferent  to  the  legs  which  he  had 
lost,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  him,  still  smiling,  and  said: 

"It  wasn't  from  want  of  interest,  I  assure  you. 
I'm  sorry  you  lost  them,  and  I  should  like  to  know 
how  it  happened." 

"Bravely  spoken,"  said  the  beggar. 

"I  have  been  told,"  said  Barbara,  "that  you  are  a 
great  power  in  the  East  Side,  a  sort  of  overlord." 

"Even  a  beggar  has  flatterers.  They  overrate  me." 
The  accompanying  shrug  of  his  great  shoulders  had 
an  affectation  of  humility.  "Now,  if  I  had  a  pair  of 
legs — but  I  haven't.  And  if  I  had  I  shouldn't  be  an 
East-Sider.  For  the  maimed,  the  crippled,  the  dis- 
eased, it  is  pleasantest  to  be  in  residence  on  the  East 
Side.  You  have  company.  You  may  forget  your 
own  misfortunes  in  contemplating  the  greater  mis- 
fortunes of  others." 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me,"  she  asked,  "where  you 
learned  your  English?" 

"My  father,"  Blizzard  explained,  "was  rather  a 
distinguished  man — Massachusetts  Institute  of  Tech- 
nology man,  University  of  Berlin,  degree  from  Har- 
vard and  Oxford.  He  had  a  prim  way  of  putting 
things.  I  suppose  I  caught  it." 

The  usual  whine  about  better  days  was  missing 
from  the  beggar's  voice.  If  he  seemed  a  little  proud 
of  his  high  beginnings,  he  did  not  seem  in  the  least 
perturbed  by  the  contemplation  of  his  fallen  estate. 
Barbara  was  by  now  frankly  interested,  and  proceeded 
with  characteristic  directness  to  ask  questions. 


66  THE  PENALTY 

"Is  your  father  living?" 

"No.  But  it  would  hardly  matter.  We  became 
thoroughly  incompatible  after  my  accident.  He  had 
very  high  ambitions  for  me,  and  a  chronic  disgust 
for  anything  abnormal — such  as  little  boys  who  had 
had  their  legs  snipped  off.  I  didn't  like  it  either.  I 
suspect  it  made  an  unusually  vicious  child  of  me,  a 
wicked,  vengeful  child." 

Buzzard's  candid  expression  implied  that  he  had, 
however,  soon  seen  the  evil  of  his  youthful  ways,  and 
turned  over  a  whole  volume  of  new  leaves. 

"What  happened?"  Barbara  asked. 

Buzzard  laughed.  "I  cannot  be  said  to  have  run 
away,"  he  answered,  "but  I  got  away  as  best  I  could, 
and  stayed  away.  My  father  settled  money  upon  me. 
And  that  was  the  end  of  our  relations." 

"And  then,"  said  Barbara,  "you,  being  young  and 
foolish,  lost  your  money." 

"Oh,  no!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  was  a  very  bad  little 
boy,  but  much  too  ambitious  to  be  foolish.  And  you 
know  you  can't  get  very  far  in  this  world  without 
money." 

"Still,"  said  Barbara,  "a  hand-organ  and  a  tin 
cup?" 

"A  loiterer  in  the  streets  of  New  York,"  the  beggar 
explained,  "picks  up  knowledge  not  to  be  had  in  any 
other  way.  Knowledge  is  power." 

"Then  you  don't  have  to  beg,  don't  have  to  pose, 
don't  have  to  do  anything  you  don't  want  to  do?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do.    I  have  to  crawl  while  others  walk. 


THE  PENALTY  67 

I  have  to  wait  and  procrastinate,  where  another 
might  rush  in  and  dare." 

Again  that  first  expression  of  Satan  fallen  over- 
powered the  casual  ease  and  even  levity  of  his  face. 
But  he  shifted  his  eyes  lest  Barbara  see  into  them 
and  be  frightened  by  that  which  smouldered  in  their 
stony  depths. 

Without  a  word,  Barbara  stepped  eagerly  forward  to 
the  rough  model  that  she  had  made  of  his  head,  and 
once  more  attacked  her  inspiration  with  eager  hands. 
The  beggar  held  himself  motionless  like  a  thing  of 
stone,  only  his  eyes  roved  a  little,  drinking  in,  you 
may  say,  that  white  loveliness  which  was  Barbara  at 
such  moments  as  her  own  eyes  were  upon  her  work, 
and  turning  swiftly  away  when  she  lifted  them  in 
scrutiny  of  him.  Now  and  then  she  made  measure- 
ments of  him  with  a  pair  of  compasses.  At  such 
times  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  nearness  was  more 
than  his  unschooled  passions  could  bear  with  any  ap- 
pearance of  apathy.  Though  a  child  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  he  had  been  enabled  for  many  years 
to  give  way,  almost  whenever  he  pleased,  to  the  in- 
stincts of  primitive  man,  which,  except  for  the  greater 
frequency  of  their  occurrence,  differ  in  no  essential 
way  from  the  instincts  of  wild  beasts. 

Had  she  been  a  girl  of  the  East  Side  he  would  not 
have  hesitated  upon  the  present  occasion  or  in  the 
present  surroundings.  But  she  was  a  girl  of  wealth 
and  high  position.  It  was  not  enough  that  his  hands 
could  stifle  an  outcry,  or  that  the  policeman  upon 
the  nearest  beat  was  more  in  his  own  employ  than 


68  THE  PENALTY 

in  that  of  the  city.  Cold  reason  showed  him  that 
in  the  present  case  impunity  was  for  once  doubtful. 

Her  hands  dropped  from  their  work  to  her  sides. 

"How  goes  it?"  asked  the  beggar. 

"If  it  goes  as  it's  gone,"  she  said — "if  it  only  does ! " 

"It  witt"  said  the  beggar,  and  there  was  a  strong 
vibration  of  faith  and  encouragement  in  his  voice. 
"May  I  look?" 

"Of  course." 

He  came  down  from  the  platform,  and  she  could 
not  but  admire  the  almost  superhuman  facility  with 
which  he  moved  upon  his  crutches.  Halting  at  ease, 
before  the  beginning  which  she  had  made,  he  re- 
mained for  a  long  time  silent.  Then,  turning  to  her, 
he  freed  his  right  hand  from  the  cross-piece  of  his 
crutch,  and  lifted  it  to  his  forehead  in  a  sort  of  salute. 

"Master!  "he  said. 

The  blood  in  Barbara's  veins  tingled  with  pleasure. 
He  had  thrown  into  his  strong,  rich  voice  an  added 
wealth  of  sincerity,  and  she  knew,  or  thought  she 
knew,  that  at  last  the  work  of  her  hands  had  moved 
another,  who,  whatever  else  he  might  have  been, 
was  by  his  own  showing  no  fool,  but  a  man  having  in 
him  much  that  was  extraordinary.  And  she  felt  a 
sudden  friendliness  for  the  legless  beggar. 

His  eyes  still  upon  the  day — knowing,  considering, 
measuring,  appraising  eyes — he  said  shortly  and  with 
decision:  "We  must  go  on  with  this." 

"To-morrow — could  you  come  to-morrow  at  the 
same  time?" 


THE  PENALTY  69 

"  Good.    Are  you  hungry?  " 

But  the  legless  man  did  not  appear  to  have  heard 
her.  A  sound  in  the  adjoining  room  had  arrested 
his  attention.  He  listened  to  it  critically  and  then 
smiled. 

"A  good  workman,"  he  said,  "is  turning  a  screw 
into  wood." 

"How  clever  of  you,"  said  Barbara.  "There  was 
a  man  coming  from  Schlemmer's  to  put  on  some  glass 
knobs  for  me.  Bubbles  has  brought  him  in  by  the 
back  stairs." 

The  faint  crunching  sound  of  the  screw  going  into 
the  wood  ceased.  There  was  a  knock  on  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Barbara. 

Bubbles  appeared  in  the  opening.  "We're  all 
through  in  here." 

It  did  not  at  once  strike  Barbara  that  to  have  fin- 
ished his  work  in  the  next  room  the  man  from  Schlem- 
mer's must  have  arrived  upon  the  scene  very  much 
earlier  than  he  had  promised.  And  she  could  not  by 
any  possibility  have  guessed  that  Bubbles,  in  a  state 
of  nervous  alarm,  had  slipped  down  the  back  stairs 
and  run  all  the  way  to  the  hardware  store  to  fetch 
him. 

"He  may  as  well  begin  in  here,  then,"  she  said; 
"I'm  through  for  this  morning."  And  she  turned  to 
the  beggar.  "To-morrow — at  the  same  time?" 

He  nodded  briefly,  but  did  not  at  once  turn  to  go. 
He  wished,  it  seemed,  to  have  a  good  look  at  the 
young  workman  who  now  followed  Bubbles  into  the 


70  THE  PENALTY 

studio.    And  so  did  Barbara,  the  moment  she  saw 
him. 

To  her  critical  eye  he  was  quite  the  best-looking 
young  man  she  had  ever  seen  "in  the  world  or  out  of 
it."  He  was  tall,  broad,  round-necked,  narrow  in  the 
hips,  and  of  a  fine  brown  coloring.  He  carried  with 
easy  grace  a  strong,  well-massed  head,  to  which  the 
close  adherence  of  the  ears,  and  the  shortness  of  the 
dark-brown  shiny  hair,  gave  an  effect  of  high  civiliza- 
tion and  finish.  Brown,  level  eyes,  neither  hard  nor 
soft,  but  of  a  twinkling  habit,  a  nose  straight,  thick, 
finely  chiselled,  an  emphatic  chin,  and  a  large  mouth 
of  extraordinary  sweetness,  were  not  lost  upon  Bar- 
bara, but  that  which  served  most  to  arrest  her  atten- 
tion was  that  resemblance  which  she  at  once  per- 
ceived to  exist  between  the  young  workman  and  the 
legless  beggar.  Yet  between  Bubbles,  who  also  re- 
sembled Blizzard  in  her  eyes  or  in  her  imagination, 
and  the  youth  from  the  hardware  store,  she  was 
unable,  swiftly  comparing  them,  to  find  anything  in 
common.  To  the  one  nature  had  denied  even  full 
growth  and  development;  upon  the  other  she  had 
lavished  muscle,  blood,  and  bone.  The  small  boy 
had  a  ragged,  peaked,  pathetic  face,  hair  that  sprouted 
every  which  way,  the  eyes  of  an  invalid,  ears  of  un- 
equal size  and  different  shapes,  that  stuck  straight 
out  from  his  head — all  the  stampings,  in  short,  of 
street-birth  and  gutter-raising.  The  workman  had 
an  efficient,  commanding  look,  the  easy,  strong  mo- 
tions of  an  athlete  trained  and  proved.  Neither  in 


THE  PENALTY  71 

the  least  resembled  the  other,  yet  both  resembled  the 
legless  beggar,  who  in  turn  resembled  Satan  after  the 
fall — and  Barbara  was  inclined  to  laugh. 

"I  am  so  obsessed  with  one  man's  face,"  she 
thought,  "that  I  see  something  of  it  in  all  other 
faces." 

"  Good-morning,  Harry."  It  was  the  beggar's  voice, 
cool,  and  perhaps  a  little  insolent. 

"Good-morning,  Blizzard."  The  young  man  nod- 
ded curtly  and  turned  to  Barbara.  "Do  you  wish 
all  the  knobs  changed?  " 

"Please." 

Without  another  word,  the  young  man  knelt  at  the 
door  by  which  he  had  entered  and  began  with  the  aid 
of  a  long  screw-driver  to  remove  its  ancient  lock  of 
japanned  iron  and  coarse  white  china. 

"What's  the  best  news  with  you,  Harry?" 

The  young  man  did  not  look  up  from  his  work. 
"That  the  water '11  soon  be  warm  enough  for  swim- 
ming," he  said. 

To  Barbara  that  answer  seemed  pleasantly  indica- 
tive of  a  healthy  nature  and  a  healthy  mind. 

"It's  a  curious  thing,"  observed  the  beggar,  "how 
many  more  people  drown  themselves  when  the  water 
is  nice  and  warm  than  when  it  is  cold  and  inhospitable. 
And  yet  it's  in  the  cold  months  that  the  most  people 
receive  visits  from  despair." 

Bubbles  looked  up,  wondering.  In  his  experience 
the  legless  beggar  had  no  manner  of  language  different 
from  that  of  the  streets  to  which  he  belonged.  But 


72  THE  PENALTY 

now  he  spoke  as  Miss  Barbara  spoke,  only,  perhaps 
we  may  be  permitted  so  to  express  it,  very  much 
more  so. 

Barbara  turned  to  the  beggar.  "I  haven't  paid 
you." 

But  he  retreated  in  smiling  protest,  picked  up  his 
hand-organ,  and  slung  it  across  his  shoulders.  "The 
door,  Bubbles." 

Bubbles  sprang  to  let  the  beggar  out. 

" To-morrow,"  said  Barbara,  "at  the  same  time. 
Good-by,  and  thank  you." 

"  Good-by,  and  thank  you"  said  Blizzard. 

Bubbles  followed  him  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and 
watched,  not  without  admiration,  the  astounding  ease 
of  the  legless  one's  rapid  descent. 

Harry,  the  workman,  having  disengaged  the  old 
japanned  lock  from  the  door,  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
turned  to  Barbara  with  a  certain  quiet  eagerness. 
"Look  here,"  he  said,  "it's  none  of  my  business,  but 
I  know,  and  you  don't.  That  man,"  he  waved  the 
screw-driver  toward  the  door  by  which  Blizzard  had 
departed,  "is  poison.  There's  nothing  he'd  stop  at. 
Nothing." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Barbara  coldly;  "and,  as  you  say, 
it's  hardly  anybody's  affair  but  mine." 

The  workman  was  good-nature  personified.  "If 
you  must  go  on  with  him,"  he  said,  "haven't  you  a 
big  brother  or  somebody  with  nothing  better  to  do 
than  drop  in,  and,"  his  eyes  sought  the  clay  head  of 
Blizzard,  "watch  the  good  work  go  on? "  He  stepped 


The  young  man  knelt  at  the  door  by 
which  he  had  entered  and  began  to 
remove  its  ancient  lock 


THE  PENALTY  73 

closer  to  the  head,  and  examined  it  with  real  interest. 
"It  is  good  work,"  he  said;  "it's  splendid." 

Barbara  was  mollified.  "What,"  she  said,  "is  so 
very  wrong  about  poor  Mr.  Blizzard?  " 

"Oh,"  said  the  young  man,  "we  know  a  great  deal 
about  him,  and  we  are  trying  very  hard  to  gather 
the  proofs." 

"We?" 

"I'm  a  very  little  wheel  in  the  machinery  of  the 
secret  service." 

"I  knew"  said  Barbara,  "the  moment  I  saw  you 
that  you  weren't  only  a  locksmith  or  a  carpenter. 
Does  Mr.  Blizzard  know  what  you  are?  " 

"He  can't  prove  it,  unless  you  tell  him." 

"I  sha'n't  do  that." 

"How  often  will  he  have  to  pose  for  you?" 

"Heaven  only  knows.  But  I  think" — and  she 
looked  the  young  man  in  the  face,  and  smiled,  for  his 
face  had  charmed  her — "I  think  that  if  ever  I  finish 
with  Mr.  Blizzard,  I  shall  ask  you  to  be  my  next 
model." 

The  admiration  with  which  the  young  man  regarded 
Barbara  was  no  less  frankly  and  openly  expressed 
than  was  hers  for  him.  "Until  this  moment,"  he 
said,  "I  have  never  understood  the  eager  desire  which 
some  people  have  to  sit  for  their  portraits.  When- 
ever you  say." 

She  laughed.    "And  the  new  door-knobs?" 

"Just  because  a  man  belongs  to  the  secret  service," 
returned  the  youth,  "is  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't 


74  THE  PENALTY 

attempt  once  in  a  while  to  do  something  really  use- 
ful." 

And  he  knelt  once  more  and  took  up  his  work 
where  he  had  left  off.  Barbara  stood  by  and  watched 
him  at  it.  "I  would  like  to  do  his  hands,  too,"  she 
thought,  "when  I  can  get  round  to  it."  They  were 
very  strong,  square,  able  hands.  She  found  herself 
wishing  to  touch  them.  And  since  this  was  a  wish 
that  she  had  never  experienced  for  any  other  pair  of 
hands,  she  wondered  at  herself  with  a  frank  and  child- 
ish wonder. 

"Your  taxi,  Miss  Barbara." 

"Thank  you,  Bubbles." 

She  slipped  out  of  her  overall,  and  with  swift  touches 
adjusted  her  hat  at  a  small  mirror.  The  secret-service 
agent  once  more  rose  from  his  knees. 

"Good-by,"  said  Barbara,  "and  thank  you,  and 
don't  forget." 

"Never,"  said  he. 

She  shook  hands  with  him,  and  his  firm  strong  clasp, 
literally  swallowing  her  own  little  hand,  was  immensely 
pleasant  to  her  and  of  a  fine  friendliness. 

"  Good-by,  Bubbles.    See  you  in  the  morning." 

"Good-by,  Miss  Barbara." 

She  was  gone.  The  man  resumed  his  work.  The 
boy  watched. 

"Harry." 

"What?" 

"Was  I  right?" 

"Right." 


Harry,  the  workman,  .  .  .  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  turned  to  Barbara  with 
a  certain  quiet  eagerness 


THE  PENALTY  75 

"A  wonder — or  not?" 

"A  wonder." 

"Harry.".. 

"What?" 

"You  won't  leave  Blizzard  up  to  me  all  alone,  will 
you?  Not  now,  you  won't?" 

"No,  Bubbles,  not  now.  Whenever  he's  posing  in 
this  room,  you  and  I  won't  be  far  off." 

"Because,"  said  Bubbles,  smiling  with  relief,  "I'd 
do  my  best,  but  if  it  came  to  a  show-down  with  him 
there  ain't  a  thing  I  could  do." 

"One  time  or  another,"  said  Harry,  "we'll  get  him. 
You  and  I  will." 

"I  betcher,"  said  Bubbles. 

And  in  his  little  peaked  face  there  was  much  that 
was  threatening  to  the  ultimate  welfare  of  the  legless 
beggar. 


X 


BARBARA,  ordinarily  clear-minded  and  single-minded, 
drove  uptown  with  her  thoughts  in  a  state  of  chaos. 
She  wished  to  think  only  about  her  newly  begun  head 
of  Satan  fallen,  since  nothing  else  seemed  to  her  at 
the  moment  of  any  importance,  but  the  face,  hands, 
and  voice  of  the  young  secret-service  agent  refused  to 
be  banished,  and  kept  suing  for  kindly  notice. 

In  almost  the  exact  degree  in  which  the  legless 
beggar  was  repulsive  to  her  sense  of  perfection  the 
secret-service  agent  was  attractive.  She  had  never 
seen  a  man  so  agreeable  to  her  eyes.  And  yet,  as  a 
marine  artist  might  see  fame  in  painting  a  wreck  upon 
a  sea-shore,  rather  than  a  fine  new  ship  under  full  sail, 
so  she  felt  that,  artistically  considered,  there  was  no 
comparison  whatever  between  the  two  men.  The 
face  of  the  elder  compelled  attention  and  study,  and 
loosed  in  the  observer's  mind  a  whole  stream  of  con- 
jecture and  unanswerable  questions.  The  face  of  the 
younger  began  and  ended  perhaps  in  the  attractions 
of  youth  and  high  spirits.  It  was  a  face  of  which, 
should  the  mind  back  of  it  prove  wanting,  you  might 
tire,  and  learn  to  look  upon  as  commonplace. 

In  the  midst  of  unguided  thinking  Barbara  laughed 
aloud;  that  small  boy  whom  she  had  lifted  from  the 
cold  gutter  to  comparative  affluence  and  incompara- 

76 


THE  PENALTY  77 

ble  affection  for  his  rescuer  came  unbidden  into  the 
flurry-scurry  of  her  thoughts,  and  remained  for  some 
time.  And  she  knew  that  if  all  her  friends  should 
fail  her,  if  the  beggar  returned  no  more  to  be  modelled, 
if  the  secret-service  agent  proved  but  a  handsome 
empty  shell,  Bubbles  would  always  show  up  at  the 
appointed  time  and  place  while  life  remained  in  him. 
Then,  again,  as  she  tried  to  concentrate  upon  her 
bust  of  Blizzard,  the  secret-service  agent  stepped  for- 
ward, you  may  say,  and  smiled  into  her  eyes.  And 
she  smiled  back.  Again  she  seemed  to  feel  the  strong 
clasp  of  his  hand,  and  to  hear  the  agreeable  and  even 
musical  intonation  of  his  strong  voice.  Odd,  she 
thought,  that  he  should  come  to  put  on  door-knobs, 
turn  out  to  be  a  secret-service  agent,  and  have  at  the 
same  time,  if  not  the  characteristics  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man, those  at  least  of  a  man  of  education  and  sensi- 
bility infinitely  superior  to  the  highest  type  of  day- 
laborer  or  detective.  One  of  her  new  acquaintances 
talked  like  a  gentleman  and  claimed  to  be  the  son  of 
a  distinguished  man;  the  other,  claiming  nothing,  was 
infinitely  more  presentable;  and  there  was  only  the 
small  boy  who  remained  frankly  representative  of  his 
class.  In  spite  of  his  coat  of  bright  buttons,  he  was 
of  the  streets  streety;  a  valiant  little  ragamuffin,  in 
all  but  the  actual  rags.  He  had  the  morals  of  his 
class  and  the  point  of  view,  and  differed  only  in  the 
excellence  of  his  heart.  This  was  a  heart  made  for 
loving,  devotion,  and  sacrifice.  Yet  it  was  crammed 
to  the  brim  with  knowledge  of  evil,  and  even  toler- 


78  THE  PENALTY 

ance  therefor.  That  certain  men  in  certain  circum- 
stances would  act  in  such  and  such  a  way  was  not  a 
horrible  idea  to  Bubbles,  but  merely  a  fact.  In  the 
boy's  code  stealing  from  a  friend  was  stealing,  but 
stealing  from  an  enemy  was  merely  one  way  of  making 
a  living. 

Upon  arriving  at  her  father's  house,  Barbara  met 
Wilmot  Allen  just  turning  away  from  the  door.  His 
handsome  face  brightened  at  the  sight  of  her,  and  he 
sprang  forward  hatless  to  furnish  her  with  quite  un- 
necessary aid  in  stepping  out  of  the  taxi. 

"Oh,  there  you  are!"  he  said.  "Sparker  said  you 
might  be  home  for  lunch  and  again  you  might  not. 
Please  may  I  graft  a  meal?  " 

"Of  course,"  said  Barbara,  "but  unless  somebody 
else  drops  out  of  the  skies  we'll  be  all  alone." 

"Your  father  off  on  a  case?" 

"Yes,"  said  Barbara,  as  they  went  in,  "he  is  oper- 
ating, but  in  Wall  Street.  And  what's  the  best  news 
with  you?" 

"That  spring's  come  and  summer's  coming.  When 
do  your  holidays  begin?  " 

"That"  said  Barbara,  with  a  certain  air  of  triumph, 
"is  a  secret  of  the  workshop.  Let's  sit  in  the  dining- 
room.  It's  the  only  way  to  hurry  lunch." 

To  persons  used  to  humbler  ways  of  life  Dr.  Ferris's 
dining-room  would  have  proved  too  large  and  stately 
a  place  for  purposes  of  intimate  conversation.  War- 
riors and  ladies  looked  down  from  the  tapestried  walls 
upon  a  small  round  table  set  with  heavy  silver  and 


THE  PENALTY  79 

light  glass  for  two,  and  having  the  effect,  in  the  midst 
of  an  immense  deep-blue  rug,  of  a  little  island  in  a 
lake.  But  Barbara  and  Wilmot  Allen,  well  used  to 
even  larger  and  more  stately  rooms,  faced  each  other 
across  the  white  linen  with  its  pattern  of  lotus-plants 
and  swans,  and  chatted  as  comfortably  and  uncon- 
cernedly as  two  children  in  their  nursery. 

"As  for  holidays,"  said  Barbara,  "I  have  a  new 
model,  Wilmot;  a  wonderful  person,  and  that  means 
work.  I  may  stay  in  town  right  through  the  summer." 

Allen  sighed  loudly,  and  on  purpose.  "You  make 
me  tired,"  he  said.  "Bring  a  lump  of  clay  down  to 
Newport,  and  /'//  sit  for  you." 

Barbara  affected  to  study  his  face  critically.  Then 
she  shook  her  head.  "My  new  model,"  she  explained, 
"has  got  the  face  of  a  fallen  angel.  I  think  I  can  do 
it.  And  if  I  can  do  it,  why,  I  see  all  the  good  things 
of  sculping  coming  my  way." 

"An  ordinary  every-day  angel  face  wouldn't  do?" 
her  guest  insinuated.  "I  could  go  out  and  fall." 

"I  don't  doubt  it!"  she  returned  somewhat  crisply. 
"I  feel  very  sure  that  you  could  disgrace  yourself 
without  trouble  and  even  with  relish.  But  it  wouldn't 
show  in  your  face.  You  see,  you  couldn't  really  be 
wicked." 

"Couldn't  I  though!"  exclaimed  the  young  man. 
"A  lot  you  know  about  it.  I  could  eat  you  up  for 
one  thing  without  turning  a  hair,  and  that  would  be 
wicked." 

"It  wouldn't,"  Barbara  laughed.    "It  would  be 


8o  THE  PENALTY 

greedy.  My  new  model  has  the  face  of  a  man  who 
has  never  stopped  at  anything  that  has  stood  in  his 
way.  I  fancy  that  he  has  murders  up  his  sleeve  and 
every  other  crime  in  the  calendar.  And  sometimes 
memory  of  them  brings  the  most  wonderful  look  of 
sorrow  and  remorse  into  his  face,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  looks  resolved  to  go  on  murdering  and  burn- 
ing and  sinning  because  he  can't  get  back  to  where 
he  was  when  he  began  to  fall,  and  must  go  on  falling 
or  perish.  Don't  you  think  that  if  I  can  cram  that 
into  a  lump  of  clay  I'll  make  a  reputation  for  myself?  " 

"I  think,"  said  Wilmot,  "that  if  you've  got  that 
kind  of  a  man  sitting  for  you,  you'll  need  all  the  repu- 
tation you  can  get.  You  talk  of  him  with  the  same 
sort  of  enthusiasm  that  a  bird  would  show  in  describ- 
ing being  fascinated  by  a  snake." 

Barbara  considered  this  judicially.  "Do  you 
know,"  she  agreed,  "it  is  rather  like  that.  He  fas- 
cinates me,  and  at  the  same  time  I  never  saw  a  brute 
I  hated  so.  He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain." 

"Oh,  he  suffers,  does  he?" 

"Of  course.  Wouldn't  you  suffer  every  minute  of 
your  life  if  you  had  no  legs?" 

Barbara,  intent  upon  what  was  on  her  plate,  did 
not  perceive  the  sudden  astonished  darkening  of  Wil- 
mot Allen's  face,  nor  that  the  interest  which  he  had 
hitherto  only  feigned  in  her  new  model  had  become 
genuine. 

"What  is  he?" 

"I  was  going  to  say  'just  a  beggar,'"  said  Barbara. 


>    o    E 
rt  2 

c  tS^ 


HI 

e  S 

rt    o  "S 
-£    O    .. 


"  o 

^j  « 

3  3 

m 


THE  PENALTY  81 

"But  he  isn't  just  a  beggar.  I've  gathered  that  he's 
rather  well  off,  and  that  he's  one  of  the  powers  on  the 
East  Side.  And  he  looks  money  and  power,  even  if 
he  doesn't  talk  them." 

"Is  his  name  by  any  chance  Blizzard?" 

She  looked  up  in  astonishment.  "How  did  you 
know?" 

"Oh,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "I've  knocked  about  the 
city  and  known  all  sorts  of  curious  people,  and  heard 
about  others.  So  Blizzard's  your  new  model.  Now 
look  here,  Barbara,  are  we  old  friends,  or  aren't  we?  " 

"Very  old  friends,"  she  said. 

"Then  let  me  tell  you  that  you're  a  little  fool  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  a  man  like  that.  You  can't 
touch  pitch,  you  know,  and " 

"I  only  touch  him  with  a  pair  of  compasses,"  she 
interrupted  sweetly. 

"Don't  quibble,"  said  Allen  with  energy;  "it's  not 
like  you.  That  man  is  so  bad,  so  unsavory,  so  vile, 
that  you  simply  mustn't  have  him  about.  He's  dan- 
gerous." 

"So  is  a  volcano,"  said  Barbara,  "but  there's  no 
reason  why  the  most  innocent  bread-and-butter  miss 
shouldn't  paint  a  picture  of  a  volcano  if  she  felt 
inspired." 

"I  see  that  there's  only  one  thing  to  do.  I  shall 
tell  your  father." 

Wilmot  Allen  was  genuinely  troubled.  And  Bar- 
bara laughed  at  him. 

"I'm  not  a  child,"  she  said. 


82  THE  PENALTY 

"That's  just  it,"  said  he;  "that's  why  you  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  And  anyway  you  are  a 
child.  All  girls  say  they  aren't  until  they  get  into  a 
mess  of  some  sort,  and  then  they  excuse  themselves 
to  themselves  and  everybody  else  by  protesting  that 
they  were.  'I  was  so  young.  I  didn't  know,'  and 
all  that  rot." 

"Blizzard,"  said  Barbara,  "is  quiet,  polite,  and  a 
good  talker.  He  comes,  he  sits  for  me,  and  he  goes 
away." 

The  butler  having  left  the  room,  Wilmot  fixed  his 
rather  tired  eyes  on  Barbara's  face,  and  spoke  with  a 
certain  earnest  tenderness.  "Barbs,"  he  said,  "take 
it  from  me,  happiness  doesn't  lie  where  you  think  it 
does.  I  think  the  very  highest  achievements  of  the 
very  greatest  artists  haven't  brought  happiness. 
Look  here,  old  dear;  put  a  limit  to  your  ambition. 
Say  that  by  a  certain  date  you'll  either  succeed  and 
quit,  or  fail  and  quit,  and  then  see  if  you  can't  take  a 
little  more  interest  in  your  own  people,  in  your  own 
heart — even  in  me." 

"Wilmot,"  she  said  seriously,  "if  I  fail  with  my 
head  of  Blizzard,  I  think  I  shall  give  up." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better,"  he  pleaded,  "to  give  up 
now?  And  then,  you  know,  you  could  always  say  if 
only  you'd  kept  on  you  would  have  made  a  master- 
piece." 

"And  who  would  believe  that?" 

"//"  said  Wilmot.  "It's  easy  for  me  to  believe 
anything  wonderful  of  you.  It  always  has  been." 


THE  PENALTY  83 

"And  a  moment  ago,"  she  smiled,  "you  called  me 
a  little  fool  and  said  you'd  tell  my  father  on  me." 

She  rose,  still  smiling,  and  he  followed  her  into  the 
library. 

"Are  all  the  studios  in  your  building  occupied?"  he 
asked. 

"They  are,"  said  Barbara,  "and  they  aren't. 
Kelting,  who  has  the  ground  floor,  has  gone  abroad. 
And  Updyke,  who  has  the  third  floor,  has  been  in 
Bermuda  all  winter."  She  sank  into  a  deep  leather 
chair  that  half  swallowed  her. 

"There's  a  janitor?" 

"No.  There's  a  janitress,  a  friendly  old  lady, 
quite  deaf.  She  has  seen  infinitely  better  days." 

"To  all  intents  and  purposes,  then,"  said  Wilmot, 
and  the  trouble  that  he  felt  showed  in  his  face,  "it's 
an  empty  house,  and  you  shut  yourself  up  in  it  with 
some  model  or  other  that  you  happen  to  pick  up  hi 
the  streets,  and  you  don't  know  enough  to  be  afraid. 
You'll  get  yourself  murdered  one  of  these  bright 
mornings." 

"Oh,  I  think  not!"  said  Barbara.  "There's  Bub- 
bles, you  know." 

"Oh,  Bubbles!"  exclaimed  Wilmot.  "He  doesn't 
weigh  eighty  pounds.  This  Blizzard — look  here,  get 
rid  of  him.  I  can't  tell  you  what  the  man  is."  He 
laughed.  "I  don't  know  you  well  enough.  But  take 
my  word  for  it,  if  a  crime  appeals  to  him,  he  commits 
it.  And  the  police  can't  touch  him,  Barbs." 

"Why  can't  they?" 


84  THE  PENALTY 

"He  knows  too  much  about  them  individually  and 
collectively.  They're  afraid  of  him.  Get  rid  of  him, 
Barbs." 

Wilmot  Allen's  voice  was  strongly  appealing.  The 
fact  that  he  sat  forward  in  his  chair,  instead  of  yield- 
ing to  its  deep  and  enjoyable  embrace,  proved  that 
he  was  very  much  in  earnest.  But  Barbara  shook 
her  lovely  head. 

"You  ask  too  much,  Wilmot.  My  heart's  in  the 
beginning  I've  made.  I've  got  to  go  on.  It's  a  test 
case.  If  I've  got  anything  in  me,  now  is  the  chance 
for  it  to  show.  You  see,  when  I  made  up  my  mind 
seriously  to  try  to  do  worth-while  things  with  my 
own  hands,  everybody  was  against  me.  And  the 
sympathy  that  I  am  going  to  receive  if  I  fail  to 
make  good  is  of  a  kind  that's  almost  impossible  to 
face." 

"Then  do  me  a  favor.  It  won't  interfere  with 
your  work,  and  it  may  be  very  useful  at  a  pinch." 
He  drew  from  his  hip  pocket  a  small  automatic  pistol. 
"Accept  this,"  he  went  on,  "and  keep  it  somewhere 
handy  as  a  sort  of  guardian.  It's  much  stronger  than 
the  strongest  man." 

"How  absurd!"  she  said.  "And  what  are  you 
doing  carrying  concealed  weapons?  I'm  beginning  to 
think  that  you're  a  desperado  yourself." 

He  rose,  smiling  imperturbably,  and  laid  the  pistol 
in  her  lap 

"At  least,"  she  said,  "show  me  how  it  works." 

He  explained  the  mechanism  clearly  and  with  pa- 


THE  PENALTY  85 

tience,  not  once,  but  several  times.  "Point  it,"  he 
said,  "as  you  would  point  your  finger,  and  keep  pull- 
ing the  trigger  until  the  enemy  drops." 

"One  every  two  hours,"  Barbara  commented,  "un- 
til relieved." 

"May  you  never  need  it,"  said  Wilmot,  earnestly. 

"I  never  shall,"  said  Barbara.  "Must  I  really 
keep  it?" 

"Yes." 

"But  you,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  will  be  quite  un- 
protected all  the  way  from  here  to  the  nearest  shop 
where  such  things  are  sold." 

"I  shall  be  armed  again,"  he  smiled,  "before  I  am 
threatened.  Indeed,  to  know  that  you  are  armed  has 
heartened  me  immensely.  What  are  you  doing  this 
afternoon?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  with  provoking  sub- 
missiveness;  "you  haven't  told  me." 

"It's  just  possible,"  he  said,  "that  the  turf  courts 
at  the  Westchester  Country  Club  have  been  opened. 
I  might  telephone  and  find  out.  Then  we  could  col- 
lect some  clothes,  jump  into  a  taxi,  and  go  out  and 
open  the  season." 

"You  can't  afford  taxis,  Wilmot.  And  you  never 
let  anybody  else  pay  for  anything." 

"Oh,"  he  pleaded,  "I  can  afford  a  taxi  this  once, 
believe  me." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Barbara,  "I  surrender." 

"If  you  only  would,  Barbs." 

"'Phone  if  you  are  going  to,  and  don't  be  always 


86  THE  PENALTY 

slipping  sentiment  into  a  business  proposition."  She 
affected  to  look  very  stern  and  business-like. 

"I  shall  engage  the  magic  taxi,"  he  affirmed. 

"The  what?" 

"Don't  you  know?  There's  a  magic  taxi  in  the 
city — just  one.  You  get  in,  you  give  your  order,  and 
lo  and  behold,  rivers  and  seas  are  crossed,  countries 
and  continents,  until  finally  you  fetch  up  in  the  place 
where  you  would  be,  and  when  you  look  at  the  meter 
you  find  that  it  hasn't  registered  as  much  as  a  penny." 

"Time,"  said  Barbara,  "flies  even  faster  than  a 
magic  taxicab.  So  if  you  are  going  to  'phone " 

"Is  there  no  drop  of  sentiment  in  that  exquisite 
shell  which  the  world  knows  as  Barbara  Ferris? 
Didn't  any  man  ever  mean  anything  to  you,  Barbs?" 

She  flushed  slightly,  for  there  had  come  into  her 
thoughts  quite  unbidden  the  image  of  a  certain  young 
man  in  workman's  clothes,  kneeling  at  a  door,  and 
removing  an  old  japanned  iron  lock.  She  shook  her 
head  firmly,  and  smiled  up  at  him  insultingly. 

"Men,  Wilmot,"  she  said,  "are  nothing  to  me  but 
planes,  angles,  curves,  masses,  lights,  and  shadows. 
They  are  either  suited  to  sculpture  or  they  aren't." 

Wilmot  laughed,  and  while  he  was  busy  with  the 
telephone,  Barbara  tried  to  think  of  the  secret-service 
agent  in  cold  terms  of  planes,  curves,  masses,  etc.,  and 
found  that  she  couldn't.  Which  discovery  annoyed 
and  perplexed  her. 


XI 


THE  girls  who  plaited  hats  for  Blizzard  had  just  fin- 
ished luncheon  and  were  taking  their  places  at  the 
long  work-table.  The  entrance  door  having  clanged 
its  bell,  twenty  heads  bent  earnestly  over  twenty  hats 
in  various  stages  of  construction,  and  twenty  pairs  of 
hands  leaped  into  skilful  activity. 

The  master  passed  up  and  down  on  his  crutches, 
observing  progress  and  despatch  with  slow-moving, 
introspective  eyes.  Presently  he  came  to  a  halt  and 
dapped  his  hands  sharply  together.  Twenty  pairs 
of  eyes,  some  cringing,  some  with  vestiges  of  boldness, 
some  favor-currying,  sought  his,  and  twenty  pairs  of 
hands  ceased  work  as  when  power  is  shut  off  from  as 
many  machines.  Blizzard's  eyes  passed  slowly  over 
the  girls  in  a  sort  of  appraising  review,  once,  and  a 
second  time. 

"Miss  Rose." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  speaker  was  one  of  those  flowers  of  girlhood 
which  bloom  here  and  there  in  the  slums.  She  might 
have  been  a  princess  in  exile  and  disguise.  Even  her 
hands  and  feet  were  fine  and  delicate.  And  if  in  her 
expression  there  was  a  certain  nervousness,  there  was 
none  of  fear. 

"Stand  up." 

87 


88  THE  PENALTY 

She  rose  in  her  place;  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
trembled  a  little,  but  curled  steadily  upward. 

"Stand  out  where  I  can  see  you." 

She  did  so,  with  a  certain  defiant  grace. 

"Turn  around,  slowly." 

She  might  have  been  one  of  those  young  ladies  at  a 
fashionable  dressmaker's  upon  whom  the  effect  of  the 
latest  Parisian  models  is  continually  tried.  While  she 
slowly  gyrated,  the  legless  man,  looking  up  at  her, 
spoke  aloud. 

"Muck!  Muck!"  he  said.  "And  yet  she's  the 
pick  of  the  bunch." 

The  girl  kept  on  turning. 

"Standstill." 

She  did  as  ordered,  but  it  so  happened  that  her 
back  was  squarely  turned  upon  the  master. 

"No  monkey  business,"  he  shouted.  "Face  me! 
Face  me!" 

She  faced  him,  still  scornful,  but  white  now,  and 
biting  her  lips. 

"The  rest  of  you,"  he  said,  "will  have  the  rest  of 
the  day  off.  Get  out." 

Seventy-six  chair-legs  squeaked,  and  Miss  Rose's 
nineteen  companions,  with  murmurs  and  occasional 
nervous  giggles,  hurried  off  to  the  coat-room.  A  few 
minutes  later  the  bell  of  the  outer  door  clanged  once 
— they  were  going;  clanged  a  second  time — they  were 
gone. 

Meanwhile  the  legless  man  had  not  taken  his  hard, 
calculating  eyes  off  the  girl  who  remained.  Presently 


She  faced  him,  still  scornful,  but  white 
now,  and  biting  her  lips 


THE  PENALTY  89 

he  spoke.  "We're  alone,"  he  said.  "I'm  between 
you  and  the  door."  He  spread  his  great  arms,  as  if 
to  emphasize  the  impassability  of  the  barrier  which 
confronted  her.  "Are  you  afraid?" 

"Yes." 

The  legless  man  laughed.  "Well  said,"  he  re- 
marked, "and  truthfully  said.  And  why  are  you 
afraid?" 

"Everybody's  afraid  of  you." 

He  regarded  her  for  some  moments  in  silence. 
"You  needn't  be.  Have  I  ever  hurt  you?" 

"No." 

"How  long  have  you  worked  for  me?" 

"Five  months." 

"And  you  are  the  cleverest  worker  I  have.  You 
admit  that?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Again  he  laughed.  "Once,"  he  said,  "I  thought 
you  were  the  prettiest  girl  I'd  ever  seen.  But  I've 
seen  a  prettier." 

"I  believe  you." 

"But  you've  got  a  certain  spirit.  You  don't 
cringe." 

"Don't  I?" 

"No!"  he  bellowed,  "you  don't."  And  when  he 
saw  that  she  didn't  cringe,  he  laughed  once  more. 

"You  live  with  Minnie  Bauer?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  have  no  father — no  mother?" 

"No,  sir." 


90  THE  PENALTY 

"Burnt  alive  in  a  tenement  fire,  weren't  they?" 

She  answered  with  a  great  effort,  and  seemed  upon 
the  verge  of  tears.  "Yes,  sir." 

"You  will  leave  Minnie,  and  come  here  to  live." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  make  it  my  business  to  reward  the 
skilful,  the  laborious,  and  the  deserving." 

She  shook  her  head.  "That's  not  good  enough," 
she  said. 

"You  will  keep  my  house  in  order,"  he  said;  "you 
will  learn  to  help  me  with  the  piano.  You  will  have 
fine  clothes  to  wear,  and  the  spending  of  plenty  of 
money." 

"Not  good  enough,"  she  repeated. 

"I  have  read  you  these  five  months  as  if  you  were 
a  book.  You  are  loyal  to  your  friends.  You  can 
keep  secrets.  I  admire  you.  There  are  many  things 
that  I  wish  to  talk  about.  But  I  cannot  talk  about 
them  except  to  some  one  that  I  can  trust.  Will  you 
stay?" 

She  shook  her  head,  but  the  legless  man  smiled,  as 
he  might  have  smiled  if  she  had  nodded  it. 

"I  am  suffering,"  he  said,  "the  tortures  of  the 
damned.  I  ask  you  for  help  and  for  comfort,  and  you 
refuse  them." 

A  look  curiously  like  tenderness  swam  into  the  girl's 
eyes.  The  beggar  moved  sideways  upon  his  crutches. 

"If  you  want  to  go,"  he  said,  "the  way's  open." 

"Can  I  really  go  if  I  want  to,  and  not  come  back?" 

"You  really  can,"  he  said.    "Most  things  that  I 


THE  PENALTY  91 

want  I  take,  but  a  man  can't  take  help  and  comfort 
unless  they  are  freely  given." 

She  moved  slowly  forward  as  if  to  discover  the 
truth  of  his  statement  that  the  way  was  open.  He 
made  not  the  least  gesture  of  interference.  When 
she  was  between  him  and  the  outer  door  and  rather 
nearer  the  latter,  she  turned  about  sharply. 

"What's  troubling  you?"  she  asked. 

"The  fact,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  something 
really  charming  in  the  expression  of  his  mouth  and 
eyes,  "that  though  I  can  give  orders  to  very  many 
people,  and  be  obeyed  as  a  general  is  obeyed  by  his 
soldiers  in  war  times,  I  have  no  friend.  Fear  attracts 
this  person  to  me,  self-interest  attracts  that  per- 
son, but  there's  no  one  that's  held  to  me  by  friend- 
ship." 

"You're  only  asking  me  to  be  your  friend?" 

"You  will  be  as  safe  in  my  house  as  in  the  rooms 
of  the  Gerry  Society." 

"If  you  want  me  for  a  friend  why  did  you  call  me 
muck  just  now?" 

"I  don't  want  the  others  to  know  that  we  are 
friends.  I  want  them  to  think — what  they  always 
think." 

"How  do  I  know  you  trust  me?" 

"Lock  the  street  door,"  he  said;  "you're  younger 
than  I.  It's  easier  for  you  to  move  about." 

She  locked  the  door  and  returned. 

"Are  you  staying,"  he  asked,  "through  curiosity 
or  friendship?" 


92  THE  PENALTY 

"Look  here,"  she  said,  "it's  neither.  Can't  you 
guess  what  ails  me?  " 

"Tell  me." 

She  took  his  strong,  wicked  face  between  her  young 
hands,  and  bending  over  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 
Then  she  drew  back,  flaming. 

The  legless  man  was  touched.    "Why?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  It  just  came  to  me,"  she  said. 
"God  knows  I  didn't  want  it  to.  I  guess  that's  all." 

Rose  found  it  hard  to  control  her  jumping  nerves. 
A  curious  thing  had  happened  to  her.  Having  at  last 
wormed  her  way  into  the  master's  confidence,  and 
brought  a  long  piece  of  play-acting  to  a  successful 
conclusion,  a  certain  candor  and  frankness  which  were 
natural  to  her  made  the  thought  of  divulging  what 
she  had  already  found  out,  and  whatever  he  might 
confide  to  her  in  the  future,  exceedingly  repugnant. 
And  she  acknowledged  with  a  shiver  of  revolt  that 
the  creature's  fascination  for  her  was  not  altogether 
a  matter  of  make-believe.  She  was  going  to  find  it 
very  hard  to  keep  a  proper  perspective  and  point  of 
view;  to  continue  to  regard  him  as  just  another 
"case"  and  all  in  the  day's  work. 

"In  my  house,"  he  said,  "you  shall  do  as  you 
please.  You're  a  dear  girl,  Rose." 

"I  feel  at  home  in  your  house,"  she  said,  "and 
happy." 

A  cloud  gathered  in  Blizzard's  face.  "Happiness ! " 
he  exclaimed.  "There  is  no  such  thing — neither  for 
you,  nor  for  me.  The  world  is  a  torture-chamber, 


THE  PENALTY  93 

and  remember,  Rose,  we  are  to  be  allies;  we  are  to 
have  no  secrets  from  each  other." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "That  was  what  you 
said,"  she  complained.  "But  have  you  really  shown 
me  any  confidence?" 

He  smiled  as  upon  a  wayward  child.  "You  shall 
know  everything  that  there  is  to  know — when  the 
time  comes." 

She  pouted. 

"And  what,  by  the  way,"  he  went  on,  "have  you 
told  me?" 

"I  have  told  you,"  she  answered  with  dignity, 
"my  one  secret." 

"The  way  you  feel  about  me?" 

She  nodded  and  blushed.  It  was  going  to  be  a 
hard  lie  to  keep  telling. 

"And  you've  no  other  secret?  Nothing  else  that 
you  ought  to  tell  me?" 

There  was  more  meaning  in  his  voice  than  in  his 
words,  so  that  for  a  moment  Rose  was  startled.  Was 
it  possible  that  the  man  suspected  her,  and  was  play- 
ing with  her  as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse? 

"What  else  could  I  possibly  have  to  tell  you  of  any 
importance?" 

"I  was  joking,"  said  the  beggar. 

Rose  sat  at  the  window  of  her  room  looking  up- 
ward into  a  night  of  stars.  She  could  not  sleep. 
Twice  she  had  heard  the  legless  man  pass  her  door 
upon  his  crutches.  Each  time  he  had  hesitated,  and 


94  THE  PENALTY 

once,  or  so  she  thought,  he  had  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  door-knob.  She  wondered  how  much  of  her 
wakefulness  was  due  to  fright,  and  how  much  to  the 
excitement  of  being  well  launched  upon  a  case  of 
tremendous  importance,  for  the  secret  service  knew 
that  Blizzard  was  engaged  upon  a  colossal  plot  of 
some  sort,  and  just  what  that  was  Rose  had  volun- 
teered, at  the  risk  of  her  life,  and  of  her  honor,  to 
find  out. 


XII 

THE  next  morning,  at  the  appointed  hour,  Blizzard 
climbed  the  stairs  to  Barbara's  studio,  knocked,  and 
was  admitted.  That  he  was  welcome,  if  only  for  his 
head's  sake,  was  at  once  evident. 

"Something  told  me  that  you  wouldn't  fail  me," 
said  Barbara. 

"You  can  be  quite  easy  about  that,"  said  Blizzard. 
"I  am  in  the  habit  of  keeping  my  word." 

He  climbed  to  the  model's  platform  and  seated 
himself  as  upon  the  previous  morning,  with  a  kind 
of  business-like  directness. 

"Ready  when  you  are,"  he  said. 

Barbara  withdrew  the  damp  cloths  from  the  day, 
looked  critically  from  the  bust  to  the  original  and 
back  again.  "My  work,"  she  said,  "still  looks  right 
to  me.  But  you  don't." 

Blizzard  smiled. 

"Yesterday,"  she  said,  "you  looked  as  if  you  were 
suffering  like,"  she  laughed,  "like  the  very  devil. 
To-day  you  look  well  fed  and  contented.  Now  that 
won't  do.  Try  to  remember  what  you  were  thinking 
about  when  I  first  saw  you." 

At  once,  as  a  fresh  slide  is  placed  in  a  magic-lantern, 
the  legless  man's  expression  of  well-being  vanished, 
and  that  dark  tortured  look  of  Satan  fallen  which  had 

95 


96  THE  PENALTY 

so  fired  Barbara's  imagination,  once  more  possessed 
his  features.  Barbara's  eyes  flashed  with  satisfaction. 

"It  wasn't  hard  for  you  to  remember  what  you 
were  thinking  about,  was  it?  "  she  said. 

"It  was  not,"  said  Blizzard,  and  his  voice  was  cold 
as  a  well-curb.  "When  I  first  saw  you,  I  was  think- 
ing thoughts  that  can  never  be  forgotten." 

"Lift  your  chin,  please,"  she  said,  "just  a  fraction. 
So.  Turn  your  head  a  fraction  more  toward  me. 
Good.  And  please  don't  think  of  anything  pleasant 
until  I  tell  you.  Anybody  can  make  an  exact  copy 
of  a  head.  Expressions  are  the  things  that  only 
lucky  people  can  catch." 

"I  believe  you  are  one  of  them,"  said  Blizzard. 
"I  believe  you  will  catch  mine — if  you  keep  on  want- 
ing to." 

"I  must,"  she  said  simply. 

And  then  for  half  an  hour  there  was  no  sound  in 
the  studio  but  the  long-drawn  breathing  of  the  leg- 
less man.  Barbara  worked  in  a  kind  of  grim,  exalted 
silence. 

Meanwhile  Bubbles  was  climbing  the  back  stair  to 
his  bedroom,  where  he  had  left  Harry,  the  secret- 
service  agent,  on  guard  over  Barbara.  The  boy,  all 
out  of  breath  with  haste,  opened  his  right  fist  and 
disclosed  a  narrow  slip  of  paper  with  writing  on  it. 

"The  minute  he  came  out  of  his  burrow  and  started 
uptown,"  said  Bubbles,  "and  was  out  o'  sight,  I 
begun  to  spin  my  top  up  and  down  Marrow  Lane. 
Rose  she's  moved  upstairs,  like  she  said  she  would." 


THE  PENALTY  97 

Harry's  eyes  sparkled  with  interest  and  approba- 
tion. "Good  girl!"  he  said. 

"I  seen  her,"  Bubbles  went  on,  "at  an  upper  win- 
dow, and  when  she  seed  me,  she  winked  both  eyes, 
like  as  if  the  sun  was  too  bright  for  'em.  I  winked 
the  same  way,  and  then  she  lets  the  paper  drop." 

Harry  took  the  paper  out  of  the  boy's  hand,  and 
read:  "Nothing  done,  much  doing." 

"She's  a  grand  one,"  said  Bubbles.  "If  he  ever 
gets  wise  to  her,  he'll  tear  her  to  pieces." 

"I'm  not  worrying  about  Rose — yet,"  said  Harry. 
"She  knows  what  she's  up  against,  and  she  can  pull 
a  gun  quicker  than  I  can.  We  used  to  play  getting 
the  drop  on  each  other  by  the  hour." 

"What  for?"  asked  Bubbles,  always  interested  in 
the  smallest  details  of  sporting  propositions. 

"Poker-chips,"  said  Harry,  and  Bubbles  looked  his 
disgust.  There  was  a  minute's  silence,  then: 

"Harry,"  said  Bubbles,  "what  do  you  think  he's 
up  to?" 

"By  George,"  said  Harry,  "I  can't  make  out. 
What  do  you  think?" 

Bubbles's  sensitive  mouth  quivered  eagerly.  "You 
tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  he's  making  hats  for — he 
don't  sell  'em — and  I'll  tell  you  what  he's  up  to." 

"Some  of  the  labor  leaders  in  the  West  are  mixed 
up  in  it,"  said  Harry;  "we  know  that." 

"Labor  leaders,  Harry ! "  The  small  boy's  face  was 
comic  with  scorn  and  facetiousness. 

"You  know  the  ones  I  mean,  Bub.    Not  the  men 


98  THE  PENALTY 

who  lead  labor — that's  only  what  they  call  them- 
selves; but  the  men  who  betray  labor  for  their  own 
pockets,  the  men  who  find  dynamite  for  half-witted 
fanatics  to  set  off.  The  men — "  He  broke  short  off, 
and  listened.  "Better  butt  in  to  the  studio,  Bub, 
and  see  what's  doing." 

"Did  you  think  you  heard  something?" 

"I  know  that  I  haven't  heard  anything  for  half  an 
hour." 

In  a  few  minutes  Bubbles  returned.  "He's  just 
sitting  there  with  a  hell  of  a  face  on  him,"  he  said, 
"and  she's  working  like  a  dynamo." 

And  although  Barbara  actually  was  working  with 
great  speed  and  gratitude,  the  entrance  of  the  small 
boy  had  seemed  to  disturb  the  train  of  her  inspira- 
tion. Somewhere  in  the  back  of  her  head  appeared 
to  be  some  brain-cells  quite  detached  from  the  impor- 
tant matter  in  hand,  and  to  these  was  conveyed  the 
fact  that  a  door-knob  had  been  turned,  and  at  once 
they  began  to  busy  themselves  upon  the  suggestion. 
Something  like  this:  door-knobs — old  door-knobs — • 
new  glass  door-knobs — man  to  put  on  new  glass  door- 
knobs— wonderfully  prepossessing  man — name  Harry 
— charming  name.  Harry — charming  smile — wonder 
if  anybody'll  ever  see  him  again. 

Gradually  other  cells  in  Barbara's  brain  took  up 
the  business,  until  presently  she  was  entirely  occupied 
with  unasked,  and  unwelcome,  and  altogether  pleas- 
ant thoughts  of  the  young  secret-service  agent.  It 
was  almost  as  if  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and 


In  a  few  minutes  Bubbles  returned. 
"He's  just  sitting  there  with  a  hell 
of  a  face  on  him,"  he  said,  "and 
she's  working  like  a  dynamo  " 


THE  PENALTY  99 

said:  "You've  worked  long  enough  on  this  dreadful 
beggar — come  with  me  for  a  holiday." 

Twice,  sternly,  she  endeavored  to  go  on  with  her 
work,  and  could  not.  Something  of  the  May-weather 
message,  that  all  is  futile  except  life,  had  filtered  into 
her  blood.  Her  hands  dropped  to  her  sides,  and  her 
face,  very  rosy,  became  so  wonderfully  beautiful  that 
Blizzard  almost  groaned  aloud.  Something  told  him 
that  his  morning  was  over,  his  morning  filled  with  the 
happiness  of  propinquity  and  stolen  looks,  with  the 
happiness  that  is  half  spiritual  and  half  gloating. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Barbara,  "ever  so  much.  I 
sha'n't  do  any  more  to-day.  I'm  not  fit.  But  we 
have  gotten  on.  Want  to  look?" 

She  turned  the  revolving-table  so  that  Blizzard 
could  look  upon  his  likeness.  And  you  may  be  sure 
that  he  did  not  lose  the  opportunity  thus  presented. 
He  regarded  the  clay  steadily,  for  a  long  time,  with- 
out speaking.  Then  he  drew  one  very  long  breath, 
and  the  expression  upon  his  face  softened. 

"That  man,"  he  said,  "has  had  a  hard  life,  Miss 
Ferris.  It  is  all  written  in  his  face.  When  he  was  a 
little  boy,  he  was  the  victim  of  a  mistake  so  atrocious, 
so  wicked,  that  the  blood  in  his  body  turned  to  gall, 
and  all  his  powers  of  loving  turned  to  hatred.  In- 
stead of  facing  disaster  like  a  man,  he  turned  from 
it,  and  fled — down — down — down,  and  fell  down — 
down — grappling  with  all  that  he  could  reach  that 
was  good  or  beautiful,  and  dragging  it  down  with  him 
— to  destruction — to  the  pit — to  hell  on  earth.  And 


ioo  THE  PENALTY 

then  he  lived  a  long  time,  pampering  all  that  was 
base  in  him,  prospering  materially,  recognizing  no 
moral  law.  He  was  contented  with  his  choice — happy 
as  a  well-fed  dog  is  happy  in  a  warm  corner.  And 
then  the  inevitable  happened.  An  idea  came  to  him, 
a  dream  of  peace  and  beauty,  of  well-doing  and  hap- 
piness. But  that  chance  was  torture,  since,  if  he  was 
to  live  it,  he  must  undo  the  evil  that  he  had  done, 
unthink  the  thoughts  that  had  been  meat  and  drink 
to  him,  and  he  must  get  back  to  where  he  was  before 
he  fell." 

He  paused,  and  extending  his  right  forefinger 
pointed  at  the  bust  of  himself  and  exclaimed: 

"That  man — there — that  you've  made  in  my  im- 
age— line  for  line — torture  for  torture,  must  go  on  liv- 
ing in  the  hell  which  he  has  prepared  with  his  own 
perverted  mind.  He  can  never  get  back.  It  is  too 
late — too  late — too  late!" 

His  voice  rose  to  a  kind  of  restrained  fury.  The 
room  shook  with  its  strong  vibrations. 

Then  he  turned  to  Barbara,  smiled,  all  of  a  sudden, 
gayly,  almost  genuinely,  and  said  in  a  voice  of  humble 
gallantry: 

"But  I've  done  you  a  good  turn.  If  you  never 
proved  it  before,  you're  proving  these  days  that  you 
are  a  heaven-born  genius." 

A  harder-headed  girl  than  Barbara  must  have  been 
pleased  and  beguiled.  She  blushed,  and  laughed. 
"I've  only  one  thing  to  wish  for,"  she  said. 

"What  is  that?" 


THE  PENALTY  101 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  "that  you  were  the  greatest  art 
critic  in  the  world." 

He  leaned  forward,  and  in  a  confidential  whisper: 
"A  secret,"  said  he,  "between  us  two.  I  am." 

Then  they  both  laughed,  and  the  beggar,  not  with- 
out reluctance,  climbed  down  from  the  platform. 
Swift  and  easy  as  were  his  motions,  he  appeared  to 
terrible  disadvantage,  and  he  knew  it.  So  did  Bar- 
bara, who  a  moment  before  had  been  on  the  point  of 
really  liking  him.  She  steeled  herself  against  the 
sudden  disgust  which  she  could  not  help  feeling,  and 
smiled  at  him  in  a  steady,  friendly  way. 

"To-morrow?"  she  said. 

"To-morrow." 

"At  the  same  time,  please.  Good-by,  and  good 
luck  to  you." 

"  Good  luck  to  you,  Miss  Ferris."    And  he  was  gone. 

Barbara,  opening  the  door  into  the  next  room,  sur- 
prised a  sound  of  voices.  They  ceased  instantly. 
"Bubbles,"  she  called. 

He  came,  looking  a  trifle  guilty. 

"Who's  that  with  you?" 

"Harry,"  he  said  simply. 

"The  man  who  was  here  before?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Barbara." 

"What's  he  doing  in  my  rooms?" 

"He  was  just  sitting,  and  chinning,"  said  Bubbles. 

Miss  Ferris  was  displeased.  "Tell  him,"  she  said, 
"that  I  can't  have  my  apartment  turned  into  a  Young 
Men's  Club." 


102  THE  PENALTY 

"Yes,  miss." 

Bubbles  retired,  reluctantly,  with  the  message, 
only  to  return  in  a  moment. 

"He  says  will  you  let  him  speak  to  you  a  moment, 
please." 

She  hesitated.  And  then,  "Yes,"  she  said.  "I 
suppose  he  wishes  to  apologize." 

He  was  even  more  charming-looking  than  the 
memory  of  him.  She  made  an  effort  to  look  a  little 
displeased,  and  a  little  unfriendly.  She  failed,  be- 
cause the  May-weather  message  had  gotten  into  her 
blood,  and  because  certain  forces  of  which  as  yet  she 
knew  little  had  established  connecting  links  between 
herself  and  the  young  secret-service  agent. 

"I  am  going  to  scold  you,"  said  Barbara.  "Bub- 
bles has  his  work  to  do." 

"But  I  was  helping  him  with  it." 

"He  said  you  were  just  sitting  and — and  chinning." 

"When  we  had  finished  working." 

"Have  you  been  here  long?" 

The  young  man  looked  her  steadily  in  the  face, 
and  said  gravely:  "Ever  since  Blizzard  came." 

Barbara  lifted  her  chin  a  little.  "I  am  quite  able 
to  take  care  of  myself,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"Do  you  make  it  your  business" — she  had  suc- 
ceeded in  making  herself  angry — "to  keep  an  eye  on 
all  young  women  whom  you  fancy  unable  to  take 
care  of  themselves?  " 

"I  only  wish  to  God  I  could,"  he  said  earnestly. 


THE  PENALTY  103 

"But  of  course  it's  impossible.  So  I  just  do  the  best 
I  can." 

"And  why  have  you  chosen  me?  Surely  others 
are  even  more  helpless  than  I  am."  She  managed  to 
convey  a  good  deal  of  scorn.  "Why,"  she  continued, 
"must  I  be  the  particular  creature  singled  out  for 
your  chivalrous  notice?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  simply. 

All  the  anger  went  out  of  Barbara,  and  a  delicious 
little  thrill  passed  through  her  from  head  to  foot, 
leaving  in  its  wake  a  clear  rosy  coloring. 

"Bubbles,"  said  the  young  man,  "would  die  for 
you;  but  he  is  only  a  little  boy.  I  am  very  strong." 

Barbara  refused  to  rise  at  the  implication  that  the 
strong  young  man  was  also  ready  and  even  eager  to 
die  for  her.  "Tell  me  more  about  Blizzard,"  she  said. 

"He's  one  of  the  half-dozen  men  in  the  city  that 
we  would  like  to  have  an  eye  on  night  and  day.  We 
want  him." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "then  you  are  not  here  entirely  on 
my  account?  It  is  also  your  business  to  be  here?" 

He  nodded,  not  altogether  pleased  with  the  turn 
the  matter  had  taken. 

"In  that  case,"  she  said,  "I  have  no  wish  to  stand 
in  your  way.  But — I  don't  propose  to  be  a  cat's- 
paw.  You  may  sit  in  Bubbles's  room  if  you  like,  but 
I  won't  have  you  on  your  hands  and  knees  at  the 
studio  door  listening  at  the  key-hole.  That  must  be 
understood." 

The  young  man  flushed  with   righteous  anger. 


104  THE  PENALTY 

"You  don't  look"  he  said,  "as  if  you  could  say  a 
thing  like  that  to  a  fellow." 

Instantly,  and  almost  humbly,  she  begged  his  par- 
don. 

"Then  I  may  come  to-morrow?"  he  asked. 

"And  the  next  day,"  said  Barbara.  "And,  by  the 
way,  what  is  your  name?  " 

"Harry,"  he  said. 

"Harry  what?" 

A  look  very  much  like  pathos  came  into  his  hand- 
some eyes.  "I  want  to  be  honest  with  you,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  own  any  other  name.  I  call  myself  West. 
But  I've  no  right  to  it.  I  don't  know  who  my  father 
was  or  what  he  was." 

"You  don't  have  to  explain,"  said  Barbara.  "I 
think  you  would  have  been  quite  within  your  rights 
in  saying  that  your  name  was  West  and  letting  it  go 
at  that." 

It  was  not  her  intention  to  receive  Mr.  West's  con- 
fidences either  at  this  time  or  any  other.  And  so,  of 
course,  ten  minutes  later,  as  she  drove  uptown,  she 
was  "dying"  to  know  all  that  there  was  to  be  known 
about  him.  He  had  gone  downstairs  with  her,  and 
put  her  into  her  cab.  He  might  have  been  a  prince 
with  a  passion  for  good  manners.  He  seemed  to  her 
wonderfully  graceful  and  at  ease,  in  all  that  he  did. 


XIII 

DR.  FERRIS  smiled  tolerantly,  and  said  to  the  foot- 
man who  had  brought  the  card:  "I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  see  Mr.  Allen."  And  he  kept  on  smiling  after  the 
footman  had  gone.  The  interview  which  he  foresaw 
was  of  that  kind  which  not  only  did  him  honor  but 
amused  him.  Wilmot  Allen  would  not  be  the  first 
young  man  to  whom  the  rich  surgeon  had  had  the 
pleasure  of  putting  embarrassing  questions:  "What 
can  you  tell  me  of  your  past  life  and  habits?"  "Can 
you  support  my  daughter  in  the  way  to  which  she 
has  always  been  accustomed?"  etc.,  etc. 

But  Wilmot  Allen  did  not  at  once  ask  permission 
to  address  Barbara.  He  entered  with  that  good- 
natured  air  of  easy  laziness  which  was  rather  attrac- 
tive in  him,  and  without  looking  in  the  least  troubled 
announced  that  what  he  had  come  to  say  embarrassed 
him  greatly. 

"And  furthermore,"  he  said,  "if  Barbara  hears  of 
it,  she'll  be  furious.  She  would  take  the  natural  and 
even  correct  point  of  view  that  it's  none  of  my  busi- 
ness, and  she  would  select  one  of  the  thousand  ruth- 
less and  brutal  methods  which  young  women  have  at 
their  disposition  for  the  disciplining  of  young  men. 
So,  please,  will  you  consider  my  visit  professional 
and,  if  you  like,"  he  grinned  mischievously,  "charge 
me  the  regular  fee  for  consultation?" 

105 


io6  THE  PENALTY 

Dr.  Ferris  laughed.  "I  shall  be  delighted  to  play 
father  confessor,"  he  said,  "if  you'll  sit  down,  and 
smoke  a  cigar." 

Mr.  Allen  would.  He  lighted  one  of  Dr.  Ferris's 
cigars  with  the  care  due  to  a  thing  of  value,  settled 
himself  in  a  deep  chair,  and  appeared  by  slightly  paus- 
ing to  be  gathering  scattered  thoughts  into  a  focus. 

"Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "there's  no  doubt  about  it. 
I  am  about  to  be  very  impertinent.  If  you  like  you 
shall  turn  me  out  of  your  house,  with  or  without 
kicks,  as  seems  best  to  you.  Barbara  needs  a  nurse, 
and  it  seems  to  me  you  ought  to  know  it;  because  in 
a  way  it's  a  reflection  on  you." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Dr.  Ferris.  "I  am  not  at  all 
pleased  with  Barbara.  What  has  she  done?" 

"Do  you  suppose  it  would  be  possible  to  get  her 
interested  in  anything  besides  this  sculpture  business 
—before  it's  too  late?  " 

"Too  late?" 

"Before  she  gets  a  taste  of  success." 

" But  wiU  she— ever?" 

Wilmot  Allen  nodded  eagerly.  "She  will,"  he  said. 
"She  is  doing  a  head.  It's  far  from  finished;  but 
even  now,  in  the  rough  state,  it's  quite  the  most 
exceptional  inspired  thing  you  ever  saw.  She  will 
exhibit  it  and  become  famous  overnight.  I  can't  bet 
much — as  you  may  perhaps  suspect — but  I'll  bet  all 
I've  got.  And  of  course,  once  she  gets  recognition 
and  everybody  begins  to  kow-tow  to  her — why,  good- 
by,  Barbara." 


THE  PENALTY  107 

"Still,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "if  she's  developing  a  real 
talent,  I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  stand  in  her  way. 
And,  besides,  we've  fought  that  all  out,  and,"  he 
laughed  grimly,  "I  took  my  licking  like  a  man." 

"Of  course,"  said  Allen.  "When  a  girl  that  ought 
to  go  in  for  marriage  and  that  sort  of  thing  takes  to 
being  talented — I  call  it  a  tragedy.  But,  passing  that, 
the  model  for  the  head  she's  doing  isn't  a  proper  per- 
son. That's  what  I'm  driving  at.  He's  one  of  the 
wickedest  and  most  unscrupulous  persons  in  the  world. 
Barbara  ought  not  to  speak  to  him,  let  alone  give  him 
the  run  of  her  studio  and  hobnob  with  him  same  as 
with  one  of  her  friends.  He's  a  man  too  busy  with 
villainy  to  sit  as  a  model  for  the  fun  of  sitting.  The 
pay  doesn't  interest  him.  And  if  he  shows  up  every 
morning  at  nine  and  stays  all  morning,  it's  only  be- 
cause he's  got  an  axe  to  grind.  He  talks.  He  lays 
down  the  law.  He  appeals  to  Barbara's  mind  and 
imagination;  and  it's  all  rather  horrible — one  of  those 
poison  snakes  that  look  like  an  old  rubber  boot,  and 
a  bird  all  prettiness,  bright  colors,  innocence,  and 
admiration  of  how  the  world  is  made.  Look  at  it  in 
this  way.  She  makes  a  great  hit  with  the  bust. 
Who's  responsible?  Well,  the  creature  that  supplied 
the  inspiration,  largely.  She'll  feel  gratitude.  He'll 
take  advantage  of  anything  that  comes  his  way.  And 
frankly,  Dr.  Ferris,  I  may  be  making  a  mountain  out 
of  a  mole-hill,  but  I'm  worried  to  death.  Suppose  I 
told  you  that,  say,  Duane  Carter  spent  hours  every 
day  in  Barbara's  studio?" 


io8'  THE  PENALTY 

Dr.  Ferris  jumped  to  his  feet,  white  with  anger. 
"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  my  daughter  is  friendly 
with  that  person?  " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Allen  calmly.  "I  think  Barbara's 
new  friend  is  a  very  much  more  dangerous  person  for 
her  to  know.  Whatever  Duane  Carter  is  he  wouldn't 
dare.  This  other  man 

"Look  here,  Wilmot" — Dr.  Ferris  began  to  pace 
the  room  in  considerable  agitation — "you're  an  old 
friend  of  Barbara's.  Is  friendliness  at  the  root  of 
your  worry,  or  is  it  some  other  feeling,  not  so  disin- 
terested as  friendship?  " 

Wilmot  Allen  rose  to  his  full  height,  and  Dr.  Ferris 
paused  in  his  pacings.  They  faced  each  other. 

"If  I  was  any  good,"  said  the  young  man  slowly, 
"if  I  had  any  money,  if  Barbara  would  have  me,  I'd 
marry  her  to-morrow.  But  I'm  not  any  good — never 
was.  I  haven't  any  money,  hardly  ever  have  had, 
and  Barbara  would  no  more  have  me  of  her  own  free 
will  than  she'd  take  a  hammer  and  smash  the  bust 
she's  making.  So  much  for  motives.  Have  I  dis- 
posed of  jealousy?  " 

Dr.  Ferris  nodded. 

"The  man,"  said  Allen,  "isn't  a  man.  He's  a 
gutter-dog,  a  gargoyle,  half  a  man.  And  his  position 
in  the  city — in  the  whole  country,  I  think — is  so  forti- 
fied that  with  the  best  will  in  the  world  the  law  cannot 
touch  him.  Duane  Carter — well,  he's  been  a  gay  boy 
with  the  ladies — a  bad  man  if  you  like — but  at  least 
he  is  not  accused  by  gossip  of  murder,  arson,  abduc- 


THE  PENALTY  109 

tion,  and  crimes  infinitely  worse  than  these.  He  may 
have  beguiled  women,  but  at  least  his  worst  enemy 
would  never  suppose  that  he  had  trafficked  in  them. 
Barbara's  model  is  all  the  things  that  you  can  imag- 
ine. And  all  of  them  are  written  in  his  horrible  face. 
To  see  them  together,  friendly,  reparteeing,  chummy, 
would  turn  your  stomach — Barbara  so  exquisite  and 
high-born,  and  the  man,  his  eyes  full  of  evil  fires, 
sitting  like  a  great  toad  on  the  model's  chair.  And 
at  that — good  God,  you  might  stand  it,  if  he  was 
a  whole  man!  But  he  isn't.  It's  horrible!  He  has 
no  legs — and  you  want  to  stamp  on  him  till  he's 
dead." 

Dr.  Ferris  had  turned  white  as  a  sheet.  "To  me," 
he  said  quietly,  "that  is  the  most  horrible  form  of 
mutilation.  I  can't  tell  you  why.  It  is  so.  And  you 
will  believe  that  in  my  practice  I  have  encountered 
all  sorts.  But  who  is  he?" 

"He's  a  man  named  Blizzard — he  passes  for  a 
beggar,  grinds  an  organ,  sells  shoe-laces  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he's  very  well  off, 
if  not  rich.  Why  don't  you  visit  Barbara's  studio 
to-morrow,  look  things  over,  and  put  a  stop  to  it? 
You  can  say  things  to  Barbara  that  I  can't,  that  no 
young  man  can  say  to  a  girl.  Go  as  far  as  you  like. 
Whatever  you  tell  her  about  him  will  be  true  even  if 
you  can't  prove  it.  You  can  make  her  see  what  thin 
ice  she's  skating  on.  Or  if  you  can't  nobody  can." 

"I'll  go  to  the  studio  to-morrow,"  said  the  surgeon. 
"I  am  very  much  disturbed  by  what  you  have  told 


no  THE  PENALTY 

me:  the  more  so  because  as  a  physician  I  have  learned 
how  many  impossible  things  are  true.  Have  you  told 
me  all  you  wish  to?  Or  is  there  more?  Do  you 
think,"  he  spoke  very  steadily,  "that  Barbara  cares 
for  this  beast?  Such  things  happen  in  the  world,  I 
know." 

"God  forbid,"  said  Allen,  "but  I  think  he  has  a  sort 
of  fascination  for  her,  and  that  she  doesn't  realize  it. 
You'll  let  your  visit  appear  casual  and  accidental, 
won't  you?  You  won't  let  Barbara  suspect  that  I 
had  anything  to  do  with  it?" 

Dr.  Ferris  promised,  and  the  two  parted  with 
mutual  good- will;  but  neither  the  next  morning,  nor 
the  morning  after  that,  was  Dr.  Ferris  at  liberty  to 
pay  a  visit  to  Barbara  in  her  studio.  Nominally  re- 
tired from  active  practice,  and  devoting  whatever  of 
life  should  remain  to  surgical  experimentation  and 
theory,  the  sudden  and  acute  jeopardy  of  an  old  friend 
caused  him  to  put  all  other  considerations  aside  for 
the  time  being,  and  once  more  to  don  the  white  harness 
of  his  profession.  For  two  days  Dr.  Ferris  hardly  left 
his  friend's  side;  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day, 
quite  worn  out,  his  jumping  nerves  soothed  by  a  small 
dose  of  morphine,  be  called  a  taxicab,  gave  Barbara's 
number  in  McBurney  Place,  leaned  back  against  the 
leather  cushions,  relaxed  his  muscles,  and  fell  asleep. 

The  taxicab  and  the  legless  man  reached  the  curb 
in  front  of  Barbara's  studio  at  the  same  moment. 
The  driver  of  the  cab  lifted  one  ringer  to  his  hat. 
The  legless  man  nodded,  and  peering  into  the  cab 


THE  PENALTY  in 

recognized  the  handsome  features  of  the  sleeping 
doctor.  He  smiled,  and  said  to  the  driver: 

"Take  him  back  to  his  house." 

The  driver  said:    "If  I  do  he'll  enter  a  complaint." 

"No,"  said  the  legless  man;  "you  will  tell  him 
when  he  wakes  that  he  gave  you  the  order  himself. 
He  won't  know  whether  he  did  or  not.  So-long." 

The  driver  once  more  lifted  one  finger  to  his  hat 
and  obediently  drove  off. 

It  was  very  silent  in  McBurney  Place;  the  double 
row  of  ancient  stables  made  over  into  studio-build- 
ings appeared  deserted.  The  legless  man  could  not 
but  flatter  himself  that  his  actions  had  been  unob- 
served. He  chuckled,  and  with  even  more  than  his 
usual  deft  alacrity  climbed  the  stairs  to  Barbara's 
studio. 

Meanwhile,  however,  a  young  man  and  a  small  boy, 
looking  through  the  curtains  of  the  latter's  bedroom 
window,  had  been  witnesses  of  all  that  passed. 

"That  was  Miss  Barbara's  father  in  the  taxi,"  said 
Harry  West. 

"Looks  like  he'd  been  out  all  night,"  said  Bubbles. 

"He  may  have  been  drugged." 

"Doubt  it.  The  taxi  turned  north  at  the  corner. 
If  the  ole  'un  had  had  the  doctor  drugged  o'  purpose 
he'd  V  sent  him  south  where  he  could  use  him.  I 
guess  he's  sent  him  home." 

"He  doesn't  want  his  morning  with  Miss  Barbara 
interrupted." 

Harry  West  sighed  and  said:  "I  don't  smoke,  Bub. 
Give  me  a  cigarette." 


ii2  THE  PENALTY 

Bubbles  accommodated  his  friend  with  eagerness. 

"And  now,"  said  West,  "the  road's  clear  to  Mar- 
row Lane;  better  slip  down  and  see  if  Rose  has  any 
word  for  us.  I'll  keep  a  good  ear  on  Blizzard." 

Bubbles  changed  from  his  buttons  to  his  street- 
jacket,  and  departed  by  the  back  stairs.  Harry 
West  took  a  small  automatic  pistol  from  his  breast 
pocket  and  played  with  it,  but  hi  the  expression  of  the 
young  man's  face  was  nothing  bellicose  or  threaten- 
ing; only  a  kind  of  gentle,  patient  misery. 

He  passed  fifteen  minutes  in  taking  quick  aims 
with  the  little  automatic  pistol  at  the  roses  on  the 
wall-paper.  Short  of  actual  target-practice,  he  knew 
by  experience  that  this  was  the  best  way  to  keep  the 
hand  and  eye  in  touch  with  each  other.  He  let  his 
thoughts  run  as  they  would.  And  presently  he  heard 
the  sound  of  Bubbles's  feet  upon  the  back  stairs. 

"All  serene  here,"  said  West. 

"All  serene  there,"  said  Bubbles,  and  he  produced 
a  slip  of  paper  upon  which  Rose  had  written: 

"Don't  come  so  often.  You've  been  noticed. 
He'll  tell  me  things  before  long — or  wring  my  neck." 

"She  worked  her  hands  some,"  said  Bubbles,  and 
he  made  letters  of  the  deaf  and  dumb  alphabet  upon 
his  fingers.  "She  said  O'Hagan's  in  the  city.  They 
had  him  to  eat  with  them  last  night.  He's  growed  a 
beard,  and  trained  off  twenty  pounds,  so's  not  to  be 
knowed." 

The  air  of  revery  had  left  Harry  West.  "O'Hagan 
in  the  East!"  he  exclaimed,  rather  with  exhilaration 
than  excitement.  "Things  are  coming  to  a  head." 


THE  PENALTY  113 

"Yep,"  said  Bubbles,  "and  we  don't  know  what 
things  is " 

"Bubbles!    Oh,  Bubbles!" 

The  boy  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  studio. 

"Mr.  Blizzard  has  gone,"  said  Barbara.  "Ask  Mr. 
West  if  he  will  speak  to  me  a  moment." 

Mr.  West  would;  and  he,  the  athlete,  the  man  of 
trained  poise,  actually  overturned  a  chair  in  his  will- 
ingness. 

"Mr.  West,"  she  said,  "you  know  all  sorts  of  things 
about  people,  don't  you?  And  if  you  don't  know 
them,  you  can  find  them  out,  can't  you?" 

"Sometimes,  Miss  Barbara." 

"I  want  to  know  about  the  man  who  comes  here  to 
pose — not  vague  things,  but  facts;  who  his  people 
were,  what  turned  him  against  the  world." 

"You're  troubled,  Miss  Barbara?" 

"I  am  terribly  troubled.  He  has  told  me  a  ter- 
rible story.  But  how  do  I  know  if  it's  true  or  not? 
If  it's  true,  he  ought  not  to  be  hounded  and  hunted, 
Mr.  West;  he  ought  to  be  pitied." 

"Then  I'm  sure  it's  not  true,"  West  smiled  quietly. 
"What  did  he  tell  you?" 

"No  matter.  But  will  you  find  out  what  you  can 
about  him?  " 

"Why,  yes,  of  course.  But  believe  me,  it's  not  his 
beginnings  that  are  of  importance.  It's  his  subse- 
quent achievements  and  his  schemes  for  the  future." 

"Another  thing,"  she  said,  "I'm  sure  he  means  no 
harm  where  I'm  concerned.  He  has  never  known 


n4  THE  PENALTY 

that  I  have  a  protector  within  call,  and  yet  his  whole 
attitude  toward  me  has  been  gentle,  humorous,  and 
even  chivalrous.  I  think,"  and  the  color  came  into 
her  cheeks,  "that  he  feels  a  fatherly  sort  of  affection 
for  me.  So  thank  you  for  all  the  trouble  you've 
taken." 

"I,  too,  have  reason  to  think  that  he  means  no 
harm,"  said  West,  "and  if  that  is  true,  I  am  wasting 
my  tune." 

There  was  a  look  of  bitterness  in  his  eyes  that  was 
not  lost  upon  Barbara.  And  she  was  troubled. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "if  you  like  to  waste  your 
time- 
He  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes.  "I  do,"  he 
said,  "I  love  to.  No  man's  life  would  ever  be  com- 
plete if  he  didn't  waste  the  best  part  of  it — throw  it 
away  on  something  or  other — on  an  ambition — on  an 
ideal — on  a  woman." 

Barbara  returned  his  glance.  "Just  what,  Mr. 
West,"  she  said,  "is  the  idea?" 

And  here,  Mr.  Harry  West  might  have  found  the 
sudden  courage  to  speak  out  what  was  in  his  heart, 
had  he  not  remembered  that  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses he  had  no  father,  and  consequently  in  the  eyes 
of  the  great  world  to  which  Barbara  belonged  could 
not  be  considered  to  have  any  existence. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  was  just  talking  through  my 
hat." 

Barbara,  who,  you  may  say,  had  been  unconsciously 
putting  out  tentacles  of  affection  toward  Harry  West, 


THE  PENALTY  115 

at  once  withdrew  them,  and  said  coolly:  "So  I  sup- 
posed." 

"May  I  look  at  the  bust?" 

"Certainly." 

She  removed  the  damp  cloths  from  her  work,  and 
Harry  found  himself  looking  into  the  legless  man's 
face.  The  features  at  once  attracted  and  repelled 
him,  and  these  sensations  mingled  with  them  feelings 
of  wonder.  Some  subconscious  knowledge  told  the 
young  man  authoritatively  that  he  was  looking  on 
a  master  work.  Barbara  noticed  this,  and  her  heart 
warmed,  and  her  pride  was  gratified. 

"I'm  going  to  hurt  your  feelings,"  she  said. 

"Mine?    Don't.    Please  don't." 

"If  you,"  she  said,  "devoted  the  next  twenty  years 
of  your  life  to  wickedness  and  vengeful  thoughts  you 
would  get  to  look  like  my  friend,  Mr.  Blizzard." 

Now  that  same  thought  had  occurred,  and  not  for 
the  first  time,  to  Harry  West,  but  he  did  not  care  to 
admit  it.  So  he  laughed  gently,  and  said: 

"In  that  case  I  shall  devote  the  next  twenty  years 
of  my  life  to  philanthropy  and — loving  thoughts." 

He  turned  toward  her,  all  smiling.  And  she 
avoided  his  eyes  without  appearing  to  do  so. 


XIV 

THE  next  morning  Blizzard  was  fifteen  minutes  late 
to  his  appointment  with  Barbara.  He  had  sat  up  all 
night  with  O'Hagan,  talking  energetically,  and  for  once 
in  his  life  he  felt  tired.  To  this  feeling  was  added 
the  fear — almost  ridiculous  under  the  circumstances 
— that  Barbara  would  scold  him  for  being  late.  Un- 
scrupulous brute  that  he  was,  his  infatuation  for  her 
was  humanizing  him.  And  in  the  whole  world  he 
dreaded  nothing  so  much,  at  this  time,  as  a  look  of 
displeasure  in  a  girl's  face. 

He  had  left  off  the  threadbare  clothes  in  which  he 
usually  went  begging,  and  had  attired  himself  in 
clean  linen  and  immaculate  gray  broadcloth.  His 
face  was  exquisitely  shaved;  his  nails  trimmed  and 
clean.  And  there  hung  about  him  a  faint  odor  of 
violets.  In  short,  the  male  of  the  species  had  begun 
to  change  his  plumage,  as  is  customary  in  the  spring 
of  the  year. 

His  mouth  full  of  apology,  he  hurried  up  the  stairs 
to  the  studio,  only  to  find  that  Barbara  herself  had 
not  yet  arrived.  Upon  the  seat  of  the  chair  in  which 
he  always  posed,  the  legless  man  perceived  an  en- 
velope addressed  to  himself.  This  contained  a  short 
note: 

116 


THE  PENALTY  117 

DEAR  MR.  BLIZZARD: 

I  can't  be  at  the  studio  till  eleven.  Please  find  some- 
where about  you  the  kindness  to  wait,  or  at  least  to  come 
again  at  that  time.  You  will  greatly  oblige, 

Yours  sincerely, 

BARBARA  FERRIS. 

Blizzard  read  his  note  three  times;  it  was  very 
friendly.  The  "Yours  sincerely"  touched  his  imagi- 
nation. Especially  the  "Yours." 

"Yours,"  he  said,  "mine,"  and  with  a  sudden  idiocy 
of  passion  he  crushed  the  note  to  his  lips.  And  then, 
as  if  with  remorse  at  having  been  rough  with  a  help- 
less thing,  he  smoothed  out  the  crumpled  sheet,  and 
placed  it,  together  with  its  envelope,  in  that  pocket 
which  was  nearest  to  his  heart.  Then  he  seated  him- 
self on  the  edge  of  the  model's  platform,  laid  his 
crutches  aside,  closed  his  eyes,  and  for  perhaps  five 
minutes  slept,  motionless  as  a  statue,  except  that 
now  and  then  his  ears  twitched.  At  the  end  of  five 
minutes,  he  waked,  greatly  refreshed,  and  ready,  if 
the  need  should  arise,  to  sit  up  the  whole  of  the 
following  night. 

There  was  a  sound  of  a  man's  steps  mounting 
the  stairs.  And  then  a  brisk  knocking  on  the  studio 
door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Blizzard. 

Dr.  Ferris  entered,  hesitated,  and  then  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

"You'll  pardon  me,"  said  Blizzard  coolly,  "if  I 
don't  get  up?" 


n8  THE  PENALTY 

"Yes — yes,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  and  in  his  handsome 
eyes  was  a  look  of  pain  and  pity. 

"It  isn't  easy  for  me  to  get  up,"  Blizzard  continued 
in  the  same  cool,  emotionless  voice,  "you  can  see  for 
yourself.  I  can't  spring  to  my  feet — like  other  men. 
Do  you  know  who  I  am?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "I'm  afraid  I  do.  But 
they  told  me  the  name  of  the  man  who  has  been  pos- 
ing for  Miss  Ferris  was  Blizzard.  Your  name 

"My  name,"  said  Blizzard,  "is  forgotten." 

Dr.  Ferris  bowed  gravely.  "Quite  so,  Mr.  Bliz- 
zard," he  said. 

"Miss  Barbara,"  said  Blizzard,  watching  closely 
the  effect  upon  the  older  man  of  the  familiarity,  "will 
not  be  here  till  eleven.  And  as  you  and  I  cannot  pos- 
sibly have  anything  pleasant  to  say  to  each  other,  and 
as  you,  although  the  older  man,  are  far  better  off  than 
I  am  for  means  of  locomotion,  and  as  even  thinking  of 
you  has  something  the  effect  upon  my  stomach  that 
mustard  and  warm  water  would  have 

"If  you  have  any  mercy  in  your  heart,"  said  Dr. 
Ferris,  his  mouth  distorted  with  emotion,  "don't  talk 
to  me  that  way.  What  made  a  hell  of  your  life  has 
made  a  hell  of  mine." 

The  look  of  cold  hatred  hi  Blizzard's  face  changed 
at  once  to  curiosity.  "Really?"  he  said;  "you  mean 
that?" 

"It  is  the  truth." 

Blizzard  considered,  and  then  shook  his  head. 
"No,"  he  said,  "it  couldn't  be  the  same.  It  may 


THE  PENALTY  119 

have  stretched  you  on  the  hot  grid  now  and  then, 
but  between  times  of  remorse  you've  had  long,  long 
stretches  of  success  and  happiness.  I  haven't.  I 
have  burned  in  hell  fires  from  that  day  to  this." 

"I  told  you  on  that  day,"  said  the  surgeon,  "that 
if  there  was  ever  anything  under  heaven  that  I 
could  do  for  you,  I  would  do  it.  You've  never  called 
upon  me  for  anything — money — or  service." 

"I've  not  forgotten,"  said  Blizzard,  "and  some 
day  I  may  hold  you  to  your  word.  Right  here  and 
now  I  will  ask  something  of  you — an  absolutely  truth- 
ful answer  to  a  question.  Do  you  hate  me?" 

Dr.  Ferris  turned  the  question  over  in  his  conscience, 
and  presently  said:  "I  am  sorry.  Yes." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Blizzard,  who  was  not  in  the 
least  disturbed.  "I've  often  wondered,  and  even, 
putting  a  hypothetical  case,  thrashed  the  matter  out 
with  my  friends.  You  would  hate  me.  It's  thor- 
oughly human.  With  me,  for  instance — I  feel  non- 
committal about  a  man.  I  decide  to  injure  him.  I 
do  so.  And  then  I  hate  him.  Now,  if  you  have  any 
message  for  Miss  Barbara — or  perhaps  you  came  to 
see  the  bust.  I  will  call  Bubbles.  He  and  Miss 
Barbara  are  the  only  persons  allowed  to  touch  the 
cloths.  I  think  she'd  let  me  uncover  the  thing,  but, 
as  you  and  I  know  so  well,  I  am  not  tall  enough." 

"My  business  with  my  daughter,"  said  Dr.  Ferris, 
"concerned  you." 

Blizzard  chuckled.  "Her  friends,"  said  he,  "have 
been  at  you  to  interfere.  They  have  persuaded  you 
that  her  model  should  be  persona  non  grata  in  the 


120  THE  PENALTY 

best  studios.  They  have,  in  short,  begged  you  to 
take  me  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  kick  me  out 
into  the  gutter  where  I  belong.  Well,  kick  me. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  I  can't  kick  back." 

"You  hurt  me  very  much,"  said  Dr.  Ferris  simply, 
"if  that  is  any  pleasure  to  you." 

"It  is,"  said  Blizzard. 

"What  your  intuition  has  told  you,"  continued 
Barbara's  father,  "is  the  truth.  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  interfere." 

"Well,  why  should  you?" 

"I  have  heard  terrible  things  about  you,  Mr. 
Blizzard." 

"That  I  have  done  things  which  the  world  regards 
as  terrible  is  true,"  returned  the  legless  man  imper- 
turbably.  "What  of  it?  Haven't  you?" 

Dr.  Ferris  turned  away  and  slowly  paced  the  length 
of  the  studio  and  back.  "I  owe  you,"  he  then  said, 
"anything  you  choose  to  ask.  But  that  is  not  the 
whole  of  my  obligation  to  this  world  as  I  see  it." 

"You  will  oblige  me,"  said  Blizzard,  "by  spitting 
out  the  moral  homily  into  which  you  are  trying  to 
get  your  teeth.  It  is  very  simple.  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  sent  away.  I  ask  you  not  to  send  me.  If  your 
statement  that  you  owe  me  anything  I  choose  to  ask 
amounts  to  two  pins'  worth,  I  think  that  I  shall  con- 
tinue to  pose  for  your  daughter  as  long  as  she  needs 
me." 

"Oh,  I'm  quite  helpless,"  said  Dr.  Ferris;  "I 
realize  that." 

"Spoken  like  a  man,"  said  Blizzard.    "And  to 


THE  PENALTY  121 

show  that  my  nature  isn't  entirely  cruel,  I'll  tell  you 
for  your  comfort  that  in  Miss  Barbara's  presence  the 
bad  man  is  a  very  decent  sort.  We  are  almost 
friends,  Doctor,  she  and  I.  She  talks  to  me  as  if  I 
were  her  equal.  As  for  me,  in  this  studio  I  have 
learned  the  habit  of  innocent  thought.  Only  yester- 
day I  took  pleasure  in  the  idea  that  in  the  world  there 
are  birds,  and  flowers,  and  green  fields." 

The  beggar's  eyes  glittered  with  a  sardonic  look. 
He  watched  the  surgeon  as  a  tiger  might  watch  a 
stag.  There  was  quite  a  long  silence.  Dr.  Ferris 
broke  it. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  said  with  great  energy,  "tell 
me  one  truth.  Is  it  part  of  your  scheme  of  life  to 
revenge  yourself  on  me  through  my  daughter?" 

Blizzard  raised  a  soothing  hand.  "Dr.  Ferris,"  he 
said,  "what  would  cause  you  suffering  would  cause 
her  suffering.  So,  you  see,  I  am  tied  hand  and — 
Pardon  me!  I  shouldn't  now  think  of  hurting  you 
through  her  unless  it  might  be  for  her  own  happiness." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Then  you  don't  understand  the  hearts  of  women. 
Then  you  know  nothing  of  the  heights  to  which  even 
fallen  men  can  raise  their  eyes." 

"What  are  you  telling  me?" 

"Very  little — very  much.  Perhaps  I  love  your 
daughter." 

Horror  and  loathing  swept  into  the  surgeon's  eyes, 
but  he  controlled  himself.  "Mr.  Blizzard,"  said  he 
presently,  "I  find  it  hard  to  take  you  seriously.  Are 


122  THE  PENALTY 

you  joking?  Whether  you  are  or  not,  the  thing  is  a 
joke.  If  you  really  care  for  my  daughter,  I  am  very, 
very  sorry  for  you.  I  can't  say  more.  If  nothing 
worse  threatens  her  than  the  possibility  of  her  heart 
being  touched  by  you,  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  be 
anxious  about  her.  As  for  telling  her  the  truth  about 
you  and  me,  why  not?" 

"Fow  tell  her." 

"I  will.    To-night." 

"Won't  you  be  playing  into  my  hands?" 

"No,"  said  the  surgeon  curtly,  "she  has  too  much 
common-sense." 

"But  you  won't  tell  her  what  I've  said?"  The 
beggar  was  suddenly  anxious. 

"No,"  and  Dr.  Ferris  smiled,  "I  may  safely  leave 
that  to  you." 

"Damnation,"  cried  Blizzard,  "you  are  laughing 
at  me." 

Dr.  Ferris's  face  became  serious  at  once.  "God 
forbid  that!"  he  said.  "If  you  have  spoken  sin- 
cerely I  feel  only  sorrow  for  you  and  pity — more 
sorrow  and  pity  for  you  even  than  I  ever  felt  before." 

"S-s-s-s-t,"  exclaimed  the  beggar,  and  his  ears 
twitched.  "She's  coming." 

"I  shall  wait,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "and  take  her  up- 
town, when  she  has  finished  working." 

"Well,"  said  Blizzard,  with  a  kind  of  humorous 
resignation,  "I'd  kick  you  out  if  I  could;  but  I  can't." 
And  he  added:  "You  haven't  got  an  extra  pair  of 
legs  about  you,  have  you?  " 


THE  PENALTY  123 

"Why!"  said  Barbara  when  she  saw  her  father. 
' '  Art  is  looking  up.  You  in  a  studio ! ' ' 

Secretly  his  presence  pleased  her  immensely.  She 
had  always  hoped  that  some  day  he  would  take 
enough  interest  in  her  work  to  come  to  see  it  unin- 
vited. And  she  now  felt  that  this  had  happened. 
And  she  thanked  Blizzard  with  sincerity  for  having 
waited. 

"Mr.  Blizzard  and  I,"  she  told  her  father,  "are 
doing  a  bust.  And  whatever  anybody  else  thinks, 
we  think  it's  an  affair  of  great  importance.  Mr. 
Blizzard  even  gives  me  his  time  and  his  judgment 
for  nothing." 

"Well,"  Dr.  Ferris  smiled,  "I  am  willing  to  give 
you  the  latter,  on  the  same  terms.  May  I  see  what 
you've  done?  " 

Barbara  removed  the  cloths  from  the  bust,  and  so 
life-like  and  tragic  was  the  face  which  suddenly  con- 
fronted him  that  Dr.  Ferris,  instead  of  stepping  for- 
ward to  examine  it  closely,  stepped  backward  as  if 
he  had  been  struck.  And  then: 

"My  dear,"  he  said  gravely,  "the  thing's  alive." 

He  looked  from  the  bust  to  his  daughter,  and  felt 
as  if  he  was  meeting  some  very  gifted  and  important 
person  for  the  first  time.  Barbara  laughed  for  sheer 
pleasure. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  will  buy  it  as  it  stands,"  said  her  father,  "on 
your  own  terms." 

"If  you  think  it's  good  now,"  said  Blizzard  quietly, 
"  wait  till  it's  finished." 


i24  THE  PENALTY 

"If  I  had  done  it,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "I  wouldn't 
dare  touch  it." 

"Yes,  you  would,"  said  Barbara,  "if  you  knew  that 
you  could  make  it  better.  It's  still  a  beginning." 

"When  do  you  expect  to  finish?" 

"I'm  going  to  keep  on  working  until  I  know  that 
I've  done  the  best  I  can.  We  may  be  months  on  it." 

Blizzard  smiled  secretly,  and  Dr.  Ferris  managed 
to  conceal  his  annoyance. 

"I  wish,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "that  I  had  taken  you 
more  seriously  in  the  beginning.  But  it  is  not  too 
late  to  get  some  advantage  by  studying  in  Paris  and 
Rome." 

"I  don't  believe  it's  ever  too  late  for  that,"  said 
Barbara,  "and  of  course  I've  always  been  crazy  for 
the  chance,  but  knowing  how  you  felt " 

"Say  the  word,"  said  her  father,  "and  you  shall  go 
to-morrow." 

Blizzard's  face  was  like  stone;  he  felt  that  his  high 
hopes  were  on  a  more  precarious  footing  than  ever. 
If  she  had  the  whim,  Barbara  would  go  abroad,  far 
beyond  the  reach  of  even  his  long  arms. 

"You  could  finish  your  bust  any  time,"  said  Dr. 
Ferris  persuasively. 

But  Barbara  shook  her  head  with  complete  de- 
cision. "A  bird  in  the  hand,"  she  said,  "is  worth 
two  in  the  bush.  And — I  hope  I'm  wrong — but  I 
have  the  conviction  that  this  head  is  going  to  be  the 
best  thing  I  shall  ever  do.  I  can  look  at  it  quite  im- 
personally, because  half  the  time  it  seems  to  model 
itself.  7  think  it's  going  to  be  good.  If  it  is  good,  it 


THE  PENALTY  125 

will  be  one  of  those  lucky  series  of  accidents  that 
sometimes  happen  to  undeserving  but  lucky  people." 

Dr.  Ferris  sighed  inwardly,  but  the  expression  of 
his  face  did  not  change.  "Do  you  mind  if  I  stay?" 
he  asked.  "I  think  it's  time  I  knew  what  you  look 
like  when  you  are  at  work,  don't  you?" 

"High  tune!"  exclaimed  Barbara.  "I'll  just  get 
into  my  apron."  She  went  into  the  next  room  and 
closed  the  door. 

"Your  innocents  abroad,"  said  the  legless  man, 
"wasn't  a  success."  His  face  was  a  jeer. 


XV 


"BARBARA,"  said  her  father  when  they  had  finished 
dinner,  "I  made  a  threat  this  morning,  and  I'm  going 
to  keep  it.  If  you  have  no  especial  objection,  will 
you  come  into  the  library?" 

Her  face  was  radiant;  he  had  been  praising  her 
work  for  the  tenth  time.  "It  sounds,"  she  said,  "as 
if  I  was  going  to  be  whipped.  That  wasn't  what  you 
threatened  to  do,  was  it?" 

"No,"  said  he.  "I'm  to  be  punished.  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  about  a  mistake  of  judgment  I  once  made. 
But  not  as  a  warning,  or  a  moral  lesson — merely,  my 
dear,  that  you  and  I  may  learn  to  know  each  other 
better.  First,  though,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about 
your  model." 

"He's  rather  fascinating,  don't  you  think?" 

"He  is  very  clever,"  said  her  father,  "and  when  he 
chooses  he  can  talk  very  well.  He  proved  that  this 
morning.  To  me,  personally,  he  is  most  repugnant, 
but  I  admit  that  when  he  once  launched  out,  I  listened 
as  a  school-boy  listens  to  stories  of  treasure  and  pirates. 
He's  lived  and  observed  and  suffered.  There  is  no 
doubt  about  that.  But  I  shall  be  greatly  relieved  to 
hear  that  your  bust  is  finished.  I  don't  like  the  idea 
of  such  a  man  being  in  the  same  block  with  you.  I 
hope  that  you  will  not  feel  inspired  to  do  another 
head  of  him." 

126 


THE  PENALTY  127 

"He's  a  splendid  model,"  said  Barbara.  "  Of  course 
this  morning  he  didn't  keep  still — and  he  did  talk. 
But  then  I  wasn't  really  working.  When  I  wish  he 
keeps  almost  as  still  as  the  clay  I  work  with." 

"Doesn't  looking  at  him  ever  give  you — oh,  a  dis- 
agreeable creepy  feeling?" 

"Not  any  more.  I'm  so  used  to  him  now.  No,  I 
feel  a  genuine  friendliness  for  him." 

"I  thought,"  said  her  father,  "that  to  you  artists, 
models  were  absolutely  impersonal — just  planes  and 
angles  and — what  was  it  you  used  to  say?  " 

Barbara  flushed  slightly,  remembering  a  former  and 
very  disagreeable  conversation.  "Your  memory  is 
much  too  good,"  she  said. 

Dr.  Ferris  frowned.  "I'm  not  trying  to  interfere," 
he  said;  "you're  old  enough  to  know  what's  best  for 
you,  but  if  I  could  instil  in  you  a  proper  distaste  for 
your  friend,  Mr.  Blizzard,  I  should  be  delighted. 
Beauty  and  the  beast  do  not  go  well  together." 

"Please"  said  Barbara,  "don't  bother  your  head 
about  me.  When  the  bust  is  finished,  you  and  I  go 
abroad  for  to  look,  for  to  see,  for  to  learn.  That's 
agreed.  We  shall  not  invite  Mr.  Blizzard  to  go  with 
us,  and  all  will  be  well.  There's  my  hand  on  it!" 

She  laughed  rosily,  and  they  shook  hands. 

"Until  recently,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "I  have  taken, 
as  you  know,  very  little  interest  in  your  career  as  a 
sculptor.  Haven't  you  thought  that  rather  an  un- 
natural attitude?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Barbara,  "I  have." 


128  THE  PENALTY 

She  took  a  box  of  safety  matches  from  a  cigar-table, 
and  kneeling,  lighted  the  fire  in  the  big  chimney-piece. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind,"  she  said;  "I'm  shivery." 

She  knelt  on,  watching  the  little  flames  grow  into 
big  flames,  and  spreading  her  hands  to  the  warmth. 
Her  face,  arms,  throat,  and  the  front  of  her  white 
dress  became  golden.  She  looked  more  like  some 
lovely  vestal  of  fire-worship  than  an  ambitious  Ameri- 
can girl,  determined  to  achieve  fame  in  the  battle- 
ground of  the  world. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  repeated,  "it  has  seemed  strange 
to  me.  When  I've  thought  that  I  wanted  to  do  things, 
you  always  took  a  lot  of  interest  and  trouble,  but 
when  I  knew  that  I  wanted  to  do  one  thing,  you  gave 
me  a  dreadfully  cold  shoulder."  She  smiled  whimsi- 
cally. "I  shall  do  an  allegory  in  bluish- white  marble 
—The  Cold  Shoulder." 

She  retreated  a  little  from  the  fire,  and  sat  at  her 
father's  feet.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  many-colored 
hair. 

From  childhood  Barbara  had  resented  parental  ca- 
resses. On  the  present  occasion,  she  felt  a  sudden 
tenderness  for  her  father,  and  leaned  a  little  against 
him,  in  answer  to  the  touch  of  his  hand. 

"Did  it  ever,"  said  he,  "strike  you  as  strange  that 
you  never  took  any  interest  in  my  career?  " 

"I've  always  been  tremendously  proud  of  you," 
she  said.  "You  know  that." 

"You  liked  my  results,"  he  said,  "the  show  pieces 
— newspaper  notoriety — speech-making — the  races  in 


Dr.  Ferris  frowned.  "I'm  not  trying 
to  interfere,"  he  said.  "You're  old 
enough  to  know  what's  best  for 
you" 


THE  PENALTY  129 

special  trains  against  death.  But  you  don't  even 
know  what  has  chiefly  interested  me  during  the  last 
thirty  years;  nor  the  goal  which  I  have  felt  I  must 
reach  before  I  could  be  resigned  to  parting  with  this 
life." 

"No,"  she  said  gently,  "I  don't.  Tell  me.  I  want 
to  be  interested." 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  I  experiment  with 
animals." 

"Yes.  I  have  seen  crates  of  guinea-pigs  and  mon- 
keys at  the  laboratory  door.  I'm  afraid  it  always 
made  me  a  little  unhappy.  But  I  suppose  it's  the 
only  way  to  get  certain  results.  And  you  always  give 
them  something,  don't  you?  " 

"Always.  They  don't  suffer  more  than  a  man 
would  while  healing  a  deep  clean  cut.  In  other 
words,  they  don't  suffer  at  all.  And  they're  not  un- 
happy, and  they  don't  bear  malice.  And  still  I 
wouldn't  do  it,  if  I  could  help  myself.  I  think,  my 
dear,  that  I  have  been  chosen  for  my  sins  to  introduce 
a  great  benefit  to  mankind.  It  seems  now  only  a 
question  of  perfecting  the  technique.  I've  already 
had  extraordinary  results." 

"What's  the  idea?" 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  a  piece  of  skin  from 
one  man  can  be  successfully  grafted  on  another  man. 
Well,  so  can  a  liver,  a  ringer,  a  hand,  a  foot,  an  arm, 
a  leg.  I  have  two  monkeys  now:  a  black  and  a 
gray.  The  black  monkey  has  the  gray  hands  and 
forearms,  the  gray  monkey  has  the  black.  I  made 


i3o  THE  PENALTY 

the  exchange  eighteen  months  ago.  And  they  have 
developed  the  same  strength  and  skill  with  the 
grafted  members  that  they  had  with  their  own.  I 
have  a  monkey  who  had  only  one  eye  when  he  came. 
Now  he  has  two — they  aren't  a  good  color  match, 
but  he  sees  as  well  with  one  as  the  other.  When  these 
ideas  are  perfected  it  will  be  possible,  perhaps,  to 
make  old  people  young.  The  secret  is  absolute  clean- 
liness and  the  accuracy  in  joining  of  a  Chippendale  or 
an  Adams.  So  you  see,"  he  smiled,  "that  in  a  way 
you  and  I  are  chasing  the  same  ambition — how  to 
express  the  thing  imagined  through  perfection  of 
technique." 

"Are  you  the  only  man  working  along  these  lines?" 

"Heavens,  no!  Aristotle  probably  believed  in  an- 
imal grafting.  But  I  think  that,  owing  to  a  natural 
talent  for  doing  close  and  accurate  work  with  my 
hands,  I  have  gone  farther  than  anybody  else.  What 
gave  you  the  impulse  to  be  a  sculptor,  Barbs?" 

She  laughed  gayly.  "The  statues  in  the  Metro- 
politan that  have  lost  their  arms  and  heads  and  legs. 
I  felt  very  sorry  for  them.  I  was  very  young  and 
foolish,  and  I  invented  a  game  to  play.  I'd  select  a 
statue  that  needed  an  arm,  say,  and  then  I'd  hunt 
among  the  other  statues  for  an  arm  that  would  fit, 
or  for  a  head  or  whatever  else  was  missing.  Through 
playing  that  game  I  got  the  idea  of  making  whole 
statues  from  the  beginning  and  not  bothering  with 
fragments." 

"And  to  think,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "that  we  have 


THE  PENALTY  131 

failed  to  understand  each  other.  Why,  Barbs,  your 
ambition  is  a  direct  lineal  descendant  of  mine.  It 
was  a  maimed  marble  that  showed  you  your  life's 
work.  It  was  a  maimed  child  that  showed  me  mine. 
It  seems  that  at  heart  we  are  both  menders." 

"I  began  on  dolls,"  said  Barbara. 

"And  I  began  on  guinea-pigs." 

A  footman  entered  with  whiskey  and  soda  on  a 
tray.  Barbara  rose. 

"Shall  I  pour  you  a  drink?" 

"A  very  little  one,  please." 

She  poured  him  his  drink,  and  once  more  seated 
herself  at  his  feet. 

"After  I  graduated  from  the  P.  &  S.,"  said  Dr. 
Ferris,  "I  did  ambulance  work  for  two  years,  acci- 
dents, births,  fires.  I  was  ambitious  to  learn,  and 
worked  myself  sick.  One  morning,  after  I'd  been  all 
night  bringing  a  most  reluctant  young  Polack  into 
the  world,  I  was  called  to  the  house  of  a  world-famous 
man  in  East  Thirty-fourth  Street.  The  house  was 
full  of  servants  mad  with  grief  and  fright.  The  man 
and  his  wife  had  gone  out  of  town,  and  their  son,  a 
beautiful  boy  about  ten  years  old,  had  got  himself 
run  over  by  a  truck.  His  governess,  I  gathered,  a 
German  fool,  had  been  in  some  way  directly  respon- 
sible. But  that  is  the  small  end  of  the  matter.  The 
boy's  legs  were  horribly  crushed  and  mangled.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  if  his  life  was  to  be  saved,  they 
must  come  off  at  once.  The  family's  physician  was 
the  famous  old  Doctor  Watson  Bell.  I  sent  for  him. 


i32  THE  PENALTY 

He  didn't  come  at  once,  and  when  I  had  waited  as 
long  as  I  dared,  I  took  upon  my  own  shoulders  the 
very  heavy  responsibility  of  operating.  I  put  the 
child  under  ether,  and  with  the  help  of  one  assistant 
took  his  legs  off  just  below  the  hip- joints.  Then  Dr. 
Bell  came.  He  was  a  very  old  friend  of  my  father's, 
and  he  had  always  been  very  good  to  me.  First  he 
looked  to  see  that  what  had  been  done  had  been  well 
done.  Then  he  examined  the  legs  that  I  had  taken 
off.  Then  he  sent  the  nurse  out  of  the  room.  Then 
he  turned  and  looked  at  me,  and  his  face  was  gray  and 
cold  as  a  stone.  He  said:  'You  fool!  You  imbecile!' 
And  he  showed  me,  clear  as  a  flash  of  lightning,  that 
the  legs  never  should  have  been  amputated.  Then  he 
said,  more  gently:  'For  your  father's  sake  I  will  save 
your  face,  young  man.  I  shall  set  my  approval  to  this 
catastrophe.  For  your  father's  sake,  and  for  your 
mother's.  I  have  always  looked  on  you  as  an  adopted 
son.  Are  you  drunk? '  I  told  him  that  I  had  been 
up  all  night,  and  had  had  no  sleep  since  five  o'clock 
the  morning  before.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
said:  'In  your  right  mind,  you  couldn't  have  done 
it,'  and  I  knew  that  I  couldn't.  'Horrible!'  he  said, 
'horrible!  This  poor  baby  to  be  a  wreck  of  a  thing 
all  his  life,  because  a  healthy  and  hearty  young  man 
cannot  get  along  on  a  little  sleep.  But,  thank  God, 
the  child  will  never  know  that  the  operation  wasn't 
necessary.' 

"By  common  accord,  we  turned  to  look  at  the 
little  boy.    His  eyes  were  open.    He  had  come  out 


THE  PENALTY  133 

of  the  ether  with  miraculous  suddenness.  And  we 
saw  by  the  expression  of  his  face  that  he  had  heard — 
and  that  he  had  understood." 

Barbara  took  her  father's  hand  in  both  hers  and 
pressed  it  hard.  "Poor  old  dad,"  she  said. 

"Of  course,"  Dr.  Ferris  went  on,  "the  child  told 
his  parents.  But  Dr.  Bell  lied  up  and  down  to  save 
my  face.  He  said  that  what  the  child  thought  he  had 
heard  was  part  of  an  ether  dream.  And  I  lied.  And 
nobody  believed  the  little  boy.  I  had  told  him,  be- 
fore Dr.  Bell  could  stop  me — I  was  hysterical  and 
crazy — that  if  there  was  ever  anything  under  heaven 
that  I  could  do  for  him,  I  would  do  it — no  matter 
what  it  was.  And  the  boy  told  his  parents  that  I 
had  said  that,  but  it  was  only  taken  by  them  as  evi- 
dence that  I  felt  terribly  sorry  for  what  I  had  had  to 
do,  and  that  I  had  a  tender  heart." 

"Poor  old  dad!"  said  Barbara.  "And  what  be- 
came of  the  little  boy?  " 

"He  grew  vicious,"  said  Dr.  Ferris.  "I  don't 
blame  him.  Quarrelled  fearfully  with  his  father, 
dropped  into  all  sorts  of  evil  ways  and  companion- 
ship— all  my  fault,  every  bit  of  it — and  finally  dis- 
appeared completely  out  of  the  station  to  which  he 
had  been  born.  I  had  reason  until  the  other  day  to 
believe  that  he  was  dead.  Then  I  saw  him." 

There  was  quite  a  long  silence.  The  fire  burned 
brightly.  Dr.  Ferris,  greatly  agitated  by  tragic  mem- 
ories, closed  his  eyes  very  tightly,  as  if  to  shut  them 
out. 


i34  THE  PENALTY 

"And  of  course,"  said  Barbara  at  last,  "the  small 
boy  is  my  Mr.  Blizzard.  Well,  what  can  we  do  for 
him?" 

"  You  owe  him  nothing,"  said  her  father  sharply. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Barbara  gently,  "oh,  yes.  Your 
obligations  are  mine.  I  shall  tell  him.  It's  like 
owing  a  frightful  sum  of  money.  We  can't  be  happy 
till  we've  paid  up,  can  we?  You  and  I?  " 

"It  seems,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "that  I  have  made  two 
terrible  mistakes.  And  the  second  is  having  told  you 
about  the  first.  My  God,  but  this  life  is  hard  to 
bear!" 

"But — why — what  have  I  said?  If  there  is  any- 
thing we  can  do  for  him,  we  ought  to  do  it." 

"Are  you  going  to  say  that  to  him?" 

"Of  course,"  she  said. 

"Suppose,"  said  her  father,  "that  in  all  this  world 
he  wanted  only  one  thing — you?" 

This  suggestion  was  most  unexpected  to  Barbara 
and  odious.  And  she  said  coldly:  "I  hope  he  is  not 
quite  such  a  fool." 

"But  if  he  is?" 

"  My  dear  father,"  said  Barbara,  "  I  have  been  told 
that  somewhere  along  the  Milky  Way  there  is  a  bridge 
between  stars.  Let's  cross  that  when  we  come  to  it." 

A  footman  entered  carrying  a  large  pasteboard 
box  on  which,  in  gilt  letters,  was  the  name  of  a  Third 
Avenue  florist.  But  the  jonquils  in  the  box  were  very 
fresh  and  lovely.  They  were,  however,  unaccompa- 
nied by  a  card. 


'Some  unknown  person,"  said  Bar- 
bara, "has  formed  the  habit  of 
sending  me  flowers" 


THE  PENALTY  135 

"Some  unknown  person,"  said  Barbara,  "has 
formed  the  habit  of  sending  me  flowers."  She  smiled. 
"I  shall  ask  my  friend,  Mr.  Harry  West,"  she  said, 
"to  find  out  who  it  is." 

And  then,  suddenly,  she  turned  away,  so  that  her 
father  should  not  see  that  she  was  blushing.  The 
thought,  not  in  the  least  disagreeable,  had  occurred 
to  her  for  the  first  time,  that  perhaps  Mr.  Harry 
West  himself  was  anonymously  going  down  into  his 
pocket  for  her  sweet  sake. 


XVI 

THE  legless  man  was  not  in  the  habit  of  waiting  for 
things  that  he  wanted,  when  the  chance  to  take  them 
had  come.  And  he  did  not  propose  to  endure  the 
torture  of  sitting  perfectly  still  hour  after  hour,  morn- 
ing after  morning,  while  any  young  woman  made  a 
bust  of  him.  Yet  he  allowed  a  number  of  mornings 
to  pass  without  taking  any  definite  steps  toward  the 
vengeance  which  he  felt  to  be  so  dear  to  him. 

That  Barbara  was  a  high-born  lady  was  the  chief 
obstacle  in  his  plans.  If  she  were  to  disappear  sud- 
denly out  of  the  world  which  knew  and  loved  her, 
there  would  be  raised  a  hue  and  outcry  greater,  per- 
haps, than  his  utmost  powers  and  resources  could 
check.  He  would  be  run  to  earth  without  much 
doubt  and  put  where  even  the  sweet  memory  of  ven- 
geance would  taste  bitter  in  his  mouth.  It  is  perhaps 
pleasant  to  pluck  the  fruits  of  vengeance,  but  a  man 
requires  time  in  which  to  eat  and  digest  them.  If 
they  are  snatched  from  his  hand  the  moment  they 
are  picked,  his  vengeance  fails  of  all  sweetness  and 
justification. 

On  the  other  hand,  Blizzard,  in  order  to  revenge 
himself  on  the  man  who  had  maimed  him,  was  willing 
to  give,  if  not  his  liberty,  his  life. 

136 


THE  PENALTY  137 

If  he  could  not  abduct  Barbara  and  go  free,  he 
would  kill  himself  when  they  came  to  take  him.  But 
he  did  not  wish  to  kill  himself.  He  wished  to  live  a 
long  time  after,  gloating  on  his  memories.  He  had 
also  on  foot  a  scheme  which,  starting  almost  as  a 
pleasantry,  had  developed  in  his  mind,  and  was  still 
developing,  until  its  latent  possibilities  staggered  his 
own  imagination. 

A  certain  Jew,  proprietor  of  a  pawnshop,  was  in 
reality  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods.  It  was  common 
knowledge  among  certain  crooks  in  the  city,  that  the 
recently  stolen  Bland  diamonds  had  come  into  this 
man's  hands.  Blizzard  thought  that  it  would  be 
funny  to  take  these  diamonds  away  from  the  Jew, 
hold  them  for  a  while,  and  then,  since  the  fellow  was 
after  all  a  friend,  return  them.  To  break  into  Reich- 
man's  store  at  night  would  be  dangerous.  Reichman 
himself  was  no  coward,  and  he  employed  a  savage 
night-watchman,  just  out  of  Sing  Sing.  So  Blizzard 
planned  a  robbery  in  a  spirit  of  farce,  and  in  the 
broad  and  crowded  light  of  day. 

Six  stalwart  young  fellows  entered  Reichman's 
pawnshop  at  eleven-thirty  in  the  morning.  Each  one 
had  a  watch  or  an  overcoat  to  pawn.  They  crowded 
about  Reichman,  all  talking  at  once.  They  were 
strangers  to  him.  At  exactly  the  same  time  the  atten- 
tion of  the  six  policemen  on  the  six  nearest  beats  was 
attracted  by  the  drunken  and  disorderly  behavior  of 
six  more  stalwart  young  fellows — one  to  each  police- 
man. In  the  end  six  arrests  were  made,  the  six 


138  THE  PENALTY 

young  drunkards  were  marched  off  to  the  station 
house,  and  the  beats  of  the  six  policemen  were  for 
the  time  being  deserted. 

Sharp  at  eleven-thirty-seven,  five  of  the  six  young 
men  in  Reichman's  shop  flung  an  overcoat  over  his 
head  and  rushed  him  into  a  dark  corner,  choking 
him  so  that  he  could  not  scream.  A  person  in  the 
street,  however,  saw  the  struggle,  and  rushed  off  to 
find  the  nearest  policeman,  who  of  course  could  not 
be  found.  Meanwhile  the  sixth  young  man  ran 
lightly  upstairs,  looked  under  the  mattress  of  the 
palatial  Reichman  bed,  where  he  had  been  told  to 
look,  and  secured  the  stolen  diamonds.  The  farce 
came  to  a  proper  conclusion.  Reichman  could  not 
complain  to  the  police  that  he  had  been  robbed  of 
stolen  goods.  And  he  went  about  for  many  days 
with  a  sour  face. 

Blizzard  came  every  day  to  condole  with  him,  and 
finally  to  return  the  diamonds.  Then  he  told  Reich- 
man, a  man  he  could  trust,  how  the  robbery  had  been 
worked,  and  the  two  put  their  heads  together. 

If  six  policemen  could  be  so  easily  put  out  of  com- 
mission at  a  given  moment,  why  not  many?  If  a 
pawnshop  could  be  so  easily  looted,  why  not  Tiffany's, 
or  one  of  the  great  wholesale  jewellers  in  Maiden 
Lane?  Why  not  the  Sub-Treasury? 

In  Blizzard's  mind  the  idea  became  an  obsession; 
and  he  worked  out  schemes,  in  all  their  details;  only 
to  think  of  something  bigger  and  more  engaging. 
One  or  two  details  were  present  in  all  his  plans:  a 


THE  PENALTY  139 

hiding-place  for  the  treasure  when  he  should  get  it, 
and  a  large  number  of  lieutenants  whom  he  could 
trust.  He  could,  he  believed,  at  the  least  throw  the 
whole  city  into  a  state  of  chaos  for  a  few  hours — for 
half  a  day — for  a  whole  day.  And  during  that  period 
of  lawless  confusion  anything  might  happen  to  any- 
body— to  Barbara  for  instance.  But  his  plans  were 
not  ripe,  nor  his  trusted  lieutenants  as  yet  sufficient 
in  number.  He  must  therefore  either  put  off  his 
vengeance  indefinitely,  or  run  the  risk  of  having  his 
own  career  as  a  criminal  come  to  a  very  sudden 
end.  For  once  in  his  life  he  vacillated.  But  it  was 
something  more  than  the  desire  for  vengeance 
which  decided  him  to  risk  everything  on  immediate 
action. 

His  plan  was  very  simple.  Sometimes  a  messenger- 
boy  brought  a  note  to  her  studio.  And  Blizzard  had 
observed  that  Barbara's  invariable  habit  with  notes 
was  first  to  read  them,  and  then  to  burn  them.  She 
never  tore  them  into  pieces  and  threw  them  into  the 
fireplace.  She  struck  a  match,  lighted  them  at  one 
corner,  and  saw  to  it  that  they  were  entirely  con- 
sumed. When  Barbara  had  finished  with  a  note,  or 
a  circular,  or  a  letter,  Sherlock  Holmes  himself  could 
not  have  recovered  the  contents  or  the  name  of  the 
sender.  Banking  on  this  habit,  Blizzard  wrote  Bar- 
bara a  note  and  sent  it  to  her  father's  house  by  a  man 
he  could  trust.  She  received  the  note  at  six  o'clock, 
while  she  was  resting  prior  to  dressing  and  dining  out. 
It  read  as  follows: 


140  THE  PENALTY 

8 1  Marrow  Lane. 
DEAR  Miss  FERRIS: 

My  affairs  don't  seem  to  be  prospering  here,  so  I  am 
going  away.  I  am  sorry  the  Bust  isn't  finished.  You  will 
be  disappointed.  I  am  leaving  at  8  o'clock  for  the  West. 
I  have  enjoyed  sitting  for  you.  I  wish  you  all  the  success 
and  happiness  you  deserve. 

Very  truly  yours, 

BLIZZARD. 

Her  mind  working  very  rapidly,  Barbara  rose  at 
once,  and  quite  unconsciously,  so  strong  was  habit 
in  her,  struck  a  match,  set  the  beggar's  note  on  fire, 
threw  it  into  the  fireplace,  and  watched  it  burn  to 
ashes.  On  the  way  to  the  fireplace  she  pressed  a 
button  to  summon  her  maid.  When  this  one  came, 
Barbara,  already  out  of  her  dressing-gown,  spoke 
imperatively: 

"I  am  going  out.  I  want  a  taxi  called  at  once. 
Then  come  back  and  help  me  dress." 

But  when  the  maid  returned  there  was  little  for 
her  to  do.  Barbara  was  in  a  hurry. 

She  found  a  taxi  waiting  at  the  door.  She  glanced 
at  the  driver — he  was  not  one  of  those  who  usually 
drove  her. 

"Do  you  know  where  Marrow  Lane  is?" 

"Is  it  near  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  miss?" 

"I  think  so.  Marrow  Lane,  No.  81.  You  can 
make  inquiries.  Hurry." 

The  strange  driver  drove  skilfully  and  swiftly  down 
the  avenue.  Two  thoughts  occupied  him:  the  beauty 


THE  PENALTY  141 

of  his  fare,  and  the  docility  with  which  she  came  to 
the  master's  hand  when  he  called. 

In  Barbara's  mind  there  was  but  one  thought:  not 
that  she  was  going  to  visit  a  disreputable  man  in  a 
disreputable  part  of  the  city,  but  that  she  was  going 
to  keep  that  man  hi  the  city  and  finish  her  bust  of 
him,  or  know  the  reason  why.  Fame  was  in  her 
grasp.  She  felt  astonishingly  sure  of  that.  She  was 
not  going  to  let  it  escape  for  a  mere  matter  of  conven- 
tion. It  had  been  her  first  idea  to  send  Blizzard  a 
note  by  messenger.  But  she  had  more  confidence  in 
her  personal  powers  of  persuasion.  If  her  model 
needed  money  or  was  in  some  scrape  that  could  be 
righted  by  money  and  influence,  she  believed  that 
she  could  keep  him  in  New  York. 

It  was  not  yet  dark,  but  all  the  city  lamps  were 
lighted,  and  the  East  Side  had  that  atmosphere  of 
care-free  gayety  habitual  to  it  after  business  hours 
when  the  weather  is  rainless  and  warm.  The  taxi- 
cab  moved  slowly,  because  the  children  had  over- 
flowed the  sidewalks  and  played  games  which  kept 
them  in  blissful  danger  of  their  lives.  Twice  the  taxi 
stopped.  Instantly  a  crowd  gathered  about  it,  and 
Barbara  became  an  embarrassed  but  amused  centre 
of  criticism  and  admiration. 

It  became  dark.  The  streets  were  less  crowded. 
There  were  fewer  lights.  There  was  an  unpleasant 
smell  of  old  fish  and  garbage.  The  people  Barbara 
now  observed  seemed  each  and  all  intent  upon  some- 
thing or  other.  They  were  not  merely  loafing  in  the 


i42  THE  PENALTY 

pure  evening  air,  but  hurrying.  There  were  no  more 
children.  The  taxi  passed  slowly  (because  of  the  un- 
even pavement)  through  a  short,  narrow  street.  The 
few  lights  in  this  street  were  nearly  all  red. 

Save  for  the  light  in  Blizzard's  manufactory,  Mar- 
row Lane  was  dark  and  deserted.  For  some  reason 
or  other  the  city  lights  had  gone  out,  or  had  been 
passed  over  by  the  lamplighter. 

Through  the  glazed  door  Barbara  saw  the  vast 
black  shadow  of  Blizzard's  profile  on  the  white  wall 
of  his  office.  There  was  no  bell.  She  turned  the 
knob  and  pushed  open  the  door.  A  bell  clanged  al- 
most in  her  ear  with  fierce  suddenness.  It  was  like 
an  alarm.  Her  heart  beat  the  quicker  for  it;  the 
number  of  her  respirations  increased.  She  was  sorry 
that  she  had  come.  She  was  frightened;  still  she 
stepped  through  the  door- way,  and  called  in  her  clear, 
resolute  voice: 

"Mr.  Blizzard!    It's  Miss  Ferris." 

His  vast  shadow  remained  motionless  like  a  stain 
on  the  wall.  And  for  a  moment  he  did  not  answer. 
Could  she  have  seen  his  face  itself,  instead  of  only  its 
shadow,  she  must  have  turned  with  a  cry  of  fear  and 
found  that  the  door  which  had  closed  behind  her, 
clanging  its  bell,  was  locked,  and  that  there  was  no 
escape  that  way. 

If  she  had  turned  her  head  she  must  have  seen  that 
her  taxi  had  gone  quietly  away. 

In  the  dim  light  she  looked  wonderfully  young 
and  beautiful.  The  parted  opera-cloak  disclosed  her 


In  the  dim  light  she  looked  wonder- 
fully young  and  beautiful 


THE  PENALTY  143 

round  straight  throat  and  the  broad  smooth  modelling 
of  the  neck  from  which  it  rose.  She  seemed  taller 
and  more  stately  than  in  street-dress,  and  at  once 
younger,  more  defenceless,  more  virginal.  There  was 
not  enough  light  in  the  place  to  bring  out  the  con- 
trasting colors  of  her  hair.  She  looked  like  a  black- 
haired  beauty  with  ivory-white  skin,  instead  of  an 
amber,  red,  and  brown  beauty,  with  rosy,  brown  skin. 
Her  head,  small,  round,  and  carried  very  high,  lent 
her  an  air  of  extraordinary  breeding  and  distinction. 
She  had  no  thought  for  the  short  rose-brocade  train 
of  her  dinner-dress,  and  let  it  trail  over  the  dirty 
floor. 

"Mr.  Blizzard!" 

This  time  he  answered.  It  sounded  less  like  a 
voice  than  the  hoarse  bass  croak  of  a  very  enormous 
bull-frog. 

"Please  step  this  way." 

Her  head,  if  anything,  a  little  higher  than  ever,  she 
walked  swiftly  forward  right  into  the  legless  man's 
office. 

His  face  was  very  white,  swollen,  it  looked,  and 
blotched  with  purple.  The  veins  in  his  forehead 
looked  like  mountain  ranges  on  a  topographical  map. 

"I've  only  a  minute,"  said  Barbara. 

He  lowered  his  head  now  over  his  ledger,  but  said 
nothing.  Then  he  looked  up  and  into  her  face 
steadily,  and  one  by  one  the  purple  blotches  in  his 
own  face  paled,  and  vanished,  like  the  extinguishing 
of  as  many  hellish  lights.  And  then  to  Barbara's  hor- 


i44  THE  PENALTY 

ror  a  low  groan,  more  like  a  dog's  than  a  man's, 
passed  his  tightly  pressed  lips,  came  out,  and  was 
cut  short  off,  as  if  with  a  keen  knife. 

"Are  you  sick?"  she  asked,  not  kindly,  but  im- 
peratively and  with  a  tone,  perhaps,  of  disgust. 

"Yes,"  said  the  legless  man  briefly,  but  without 
going  into  any  explanation  of  his  ailment.  "You 
came  to  tell  me  that  I  mustn't  go  away  till  the  bust 
is  finished.  Is  that  it?" 

Barbara  felt  more  at  her  ease.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"I  am  selfish  about  it.  It  means  so  much  to  me." 

"Well,  you  needn't  have  come,"  said  Blizzard,  and 
it  was  almost  as  if  he  was  angry  with  her  for  having 
done  so.  "I've  changed  my  plans.  I've  had  to 
change  them.  I  stay." 

Barbara  was  immensely  pleased.  "I  wish  I  could 
tell  you  how  glad  I  am,"  she  said. 

"The  thing  now,"  said  Blizzard,  "is  to  get  you 
back  to  your  house.  You  shouldn't  have  come  to 
this  part  of  the  city  at  all;  and  especially  not  dressed 
like  that.  But  you  didn't  stop  to  think.  You  had 
an  idea  in  your  head.  And  you  came.  Did  anybody 
know  where  you  were  going  when  you  left  home?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Something  dreadful  might  have  happened  to  you," 
he  said,  and  a  curious  smile  played  about  his  mouth 
for  a  moment,  "and  no  one  the  wiser.  Suppose  you 
hadn't  found  me  here  to  look  after  you?  Suppose 
you'd  found  some  drunken  crook  just  out  of  Sing 
Sing,  or  something  worse?  " 


THE  PENALTY  145 

"But  I  did  find  you,"  said  Barbara,  "and  all  is 
well." 

"Yes — yes,"  he  said,  "all  is  well.  And  you  may 
thank  your  stars  for  that.  Why  didn't  you  tell  your 
taxi  to  wait?" 

"But  I  did." 

Again  the  curious  smile  flickered  about  the  legless 
man's  mouth.  "Well,  he's  gone." 

Barbara  followed  the  lead  of  Blizzard's  eyes,  and 
saw  that  the  street  in  front  of  his  manufactory  was 
empty.  He  reached  for  his  crutches,  and  swung  him- 
self down  from  his  chair. 

"Perhaps  he's  dropped  down  to  Jake's  saloon. 
Wait  here.  I'll  see." 

The  bell  of  the  outer  door  clanged  with  horrid  sud- 
denness. And  then  she  heard  a  piercing  loud  whistle 
twice  repeated.  And  a  few  moments  later  the  sound 
of  a  motor. 

"All  right,  Miss  Ferris,  I've  got  him." 

She  drew  her  cloak  together,  and  joined  the  legless 
man  on  the  sidewalk. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said,  "and  good-by 
till  to-morrow." 

The  taxicab  driver's  face  had  no  expression  what- 
ever. He  who  understood  driving  so  well  could  not 
make  out  what  the  master  was  driving  at. 

Blizzard  held  open  the  door  of  the  taxi,  and  Bar- 
bara got  in.  But  he  did  not  at  once  close  the  door. 
Instead  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  up  the  street. 
Then  he  called  out  sharply: 


i46  THE  PENALTY 

"Hurry  up!    Can't  you  see  the  lady's  waiting." 

One  came,  running;  a  tall  well-built  youth,  with  an 
expression  on  his  face  of  cool,  cynical  courage  and 
good  humor. 

"Miss  Ferris,"  said  Blizzard,  "this  young  fellow  will 
ride  in  with  you  if  you  don't  mind.  You  can  drop 
him  when  you  get  out  of  the  East  Side,  and  reach  your 
own  part  of  the  city.  He  will  see  that  no  harm  comes 
to  you.  If  you  ask  him  questions  he  will  answer 
them.  Otherwise  he  will  not  speak  unless  you  wish." 

The  youth  grinned  a  little  sheepishly,  and  Barbara 
made  room  for  him  on  the  seat  beside  her. 

"He  will  answer  for  your  safety,"  continued  the 
legless  man,  "with  his  ears.  Where  to?" 

She  gave  the  number  of  the  house  at  which  she  was 
to  dine,  and  the  legless  man  repeated  it  to  the  driver. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Blizzard,  and  thank  you." 

"  Good-night,  Miss  Ferris,  and  welcome." 

The  legless  man  watched  the  taxicab  until  it  had 
rounded  the  corner  of  Marrow  Lane.  Then  he  looked 
upward  at  the  stars  for  a  while.  Then  he  swung 
slowly  and  wearily  back  into  his  rookery,  and  having 
extinguished  the  light,  sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  dark. 

What  was  it  that  had  come  over  the  man  to  let  his 
victim  escape  when  she  was  so  mercilessly  in  his 
power?  Ask  the  stars  to  which  he  turned.  Ask  the 
darkness  in  which  he  sits,  alone,  thinking.  Better, 
perhaps,  ask  the  man's  warped  and  tormented  soul. 

It  seems  that  while  he  sat  in  his  office  waiting  for 
her,  a  champion  rose  up  to  defend  her,  a  champion  in 


He  turned  with  one  foot  on  the  side- 
walk, and  one  in  the  cab.  .  .  . 
"Here  I  wishes  you  salutations  .  . ." 


THE  PENALTY  147 

his  own  heart.  A  champion  who  made  such  head- 
way against  the  brute's  lawless  and  beastly  intention 
as  to  overthrow  it. 

Blizzard  was  in  the  power  of  that  which  all  his 
mature  life  he  had  feared  more  than  hanging  or  the 
electric  chair,  more  even  than  prisons.  He  had  fallen 
quietly,  even  gently,  in  love. 

"I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  any  questions,"  said 
Barbara,  "because  I  don't  think  of  any.  But  if  you 
like  to  talk,  please  do." 

Without  comment  or  preamble  the  youth  who  was 
to  answer  for  her  safety  with  his  ears,  began  to 
talk. 

"Might  have  knocked  me  over  with  a  feather,"  he 
said,  "  to  find  a  lady  like  you  sitting  in  a  cab  in  front 
o'  Blizzard's  place.  At  first  look  I  says  to  myself: 
'One  o'  these  high-fliers  I've  heard  talk  about  that 
likes  to  fly  low.'  Then  I  flings  your  eyes  one  pene- 
trating peep,  and  says  to  myself:  "Spect  she  ain't 
one  o'  that  kind.'  And  I  make  out  just  this  about 
you  that  you're  0.  K.  from  A  to  Xylophone,  and  I 
takes  this  opportunity  to  remark  aloud  to  myself  that 
I  don't  know  what  your  game  is,  and  it's  none  o'  my 
haterogeneous  business,  but  if  I  was  you  I'd  cut 
Marrow  Lane  out  o'  my  itenerary,  and  stay  home 
nights  playin'  a  quiet  rubber  o'  tiddle  winks-the- 
barber." 

Barbara  laughed  gayly.  "Everybody,"  she  said, 
"thinks  that  my  friend,  Mr.  Blizzard,  is  a  very  bad 


148  THE  PENALTY 

man.  But  he  does  nothing  to  prove  it.  He  has 
been  very  considerate  of  me  in  every  way." 

"Did  I  say  anything  against  Blizzard?  You'll  tell 
him  I  did?  Not  you.  And  I  did  not.  If  it  wasn't 
for  him,  I  says,  Marrow  Lane  would  be  hell's  kitchen, 
and  on  the  chanct  that  he  ain't  always  going  to  be 
on  the  spot,  nor  me,  cut  it  out,  I  says.  But,"  con- 
tinued the  talkative  youth,  "in  case  you  don't  cut  it 
out,  in  case  you're  ever  in  trouble  down  our  way  you 
take  this,"  bluntly  he  handed  her  a  small,  dark  metal 
whistle,  "and  blow  her  good.  I  knows  the  note,  and 
if  my  ears  is  on  the  job,  you  gets  help.  You  gets  it 
sudden.  You  gets  it  good.  And  here,  without  fear 
or  comment,  I  leaves  you." 

He  signalled  to  the  driver  to  stop.  They  had 
reached  the  southern  boundary  of  Washington  Square. 
Barbara  held  out  her  hand.  She  was  greatly  taken 
with  her  escort. 

"And  whom,"  she  said,  "am  I  thanking  for  the 
whistle?" 

"Kid  Shannon." 

"Don't  tell  me,"  said  Barbara,  "that  you're  the 
man  who  put  Hook  Hammersley  out  in  the  third!" 

"A  right  to  the  solar  plexus,"  said  Kid  Shannon 
simply,  "to  bring  him  in  range  and  a  left  to  the  jaw. 
Even  his  friends  admits  that  he  begun  to  take  his 
gloves  off  while  he  was  still  in  the  air.  But  I'm  in  the 
saloon  business  now,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  having 
been  light-weight  champion,  and  spoke  a  monologue 
over  three  circuits — nice-behaved  ladies  and  gentle- 


D      » 


Wilmot  Allen  took  her  into  dinner, 
and  looked  much  love  at  her,  and 
talked  much  nonsense 


THE  PENALTY  149 

men  o'  both  sexes  always  welcome,  pay  as  you  con- 
sume; but  for  you  or  any  friends  o'  yours  the  drinks 
will  be  on  the  house." 

He  turned  with  one  foot  on  the  sidewalk,  and  one 
in  the  cab. 

"Lady,"  he  said,  "what  I've  poured  in  jest,  drink 
in  earnest.  All  that's  yellow  isn't  butter.  But  if 
anybody  was  to  ask  you — say,  a  man  who  shall  be  as 
nameless  as  he  is  legless — what  I  says  to  you  during 
our  discursive  promenaid,  you  answer  back  and  say, 
'Kid  Shannon,  whenever  I  speaks  to  him,  merely  says, 
"Ha!  Hum!" — or  words  to  that  effect.9  Here  I  wishes 
you  salutations,  and  may  your  life  contain  nothing 
but  times  when  you  looks  and  feels  your  best." 

Barbara  shook  hands  with  him  again.  "Come  to 
17  McBurney  Place,"  she  said,  "some  morning.  Ask 
for  Miss  Ferris,  and  see  what  you  think  of  the  bust 
she's  making  of  Mr.  Blizzard."  She  smiled  mis- 
chievously. "He's  supposed  to  represent  the  devil 
just  after  falling  into  hell." 

Shannon  nodded  with  complete  understanding. 
"Then,"  said  he,  "I  bet  he  looks  a  ringer  for  Hook 
Hammersley  that  time  he  hit  the  resin." 

"Thank  you  for  protecting  me,"  said  Barbara, 
"and  for  the  whistle.  Will  you  tell  the  man  to 
hurry,  please?  Thank  you!  Good-by." 

She  was  very  late  to  her  dinner,  but  much  too 
amused  with  recent  events  to  care.  And  nobody 
could  have  made  her  believe  that  her  going  to  Bliz- 
zard's place  had  been  fraught  with  terrible  peril. 


150  THE  PENALTY 

She  prized  the  whistle  that  Kid  Shannon  had  given 
her,  and  resolved  that  some  time  she  would  advent- 
ure again  into  his  part  of  the  city,  and  see  if  she 
could  bring  him  running  to  her  side. 

"I  am  sorry  I  am  late,"  said  Barbara,  "but  I 
couldn't  help  it."  She  vouchsafed  no  further  ex- 
planation, and  because  she  was  so  young  and  beauti- 
ful all  those  who  had  been  kept  waiting  forgave  her. 

Wilmot  Allen  took  her  in  to  dinner,  and  looked 
much  love  at  her,  and  talked  much  nonsense.  He 
was,  indeed,  so  gay  and  foolish  that  she  imagined  that 
he  must  have  got  himself  into  trouble  again. 


XVII 

BLIZZARD  was  an  acute  student  of  human  nature. 
And  a  certain  softening  in  Barbara's  manner  toward 
him  was  proof  that  she  had  learned  his  story  from 
her  father,  and  no  longer  regarded  him  as  a  stranger 
off  the  streets,  but  as  a  human  being  definitely  con- 
nected with  her  outlook  upon  life.  Still,  the  sugges- 
tion that  their  relations  had  changed  did  not  come 
from  him,  for  he  knew  that  pity  or  sympathy  given 
by  request  lacks  the  potency  of  that  which  is  spon- 
taneously offered.  So  he  held  his  peace  in  order  that 
Barbara  might  be  the  first  to  speak,  and  during  those 
days  his  heart  became  filled  with  mad  hopes  for  the 
future. 

-  Upon  one  thing  he  was  determined,  that  when  in 
the  course  of  events  Barbara  should  touch  upon  her 
father's  criminal  mistake,  he  would  conceal,  as  some- 
thing precious  from  a  thief,  the  hatred  and  vengeful- 
ness  that  were  in  him,  and  unroll  for  her  benefit  a 
character  noble  and  forgiving.  He  was  content,  or 
appeared  content,  day  after  day,  for  a  number  of 
hours,  to  be  with  her,  and  to  play  the  hypocrite  so 
ably  as  to  defy  detection. 

And  Barbara,  knowing  how  the  man  had   been 
abused,  guessing  how  he  must  have  suffered,  and  still 


152  THE  PENALTY 

suffered,  came  to  look  upon  him,  not  indeed  as  upon 
a  person  wholly  noble,  but  as  upon  one  who,  with  an 
impulse  in  the  right  direction,  had  in  him  possibilities 
of  great  nobility. 

Just  as  a  fine  motor-car,  perfect  in  mechanism, 
punctures  a  tire  and  is  stalled  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
so  works  of  genius  like  Barbara's  head  of  Blizzard  do 
not  progress  in  one  swift  rush  from  start  to  finish. 
There  were  whole  mornings  during  which  it  seemed 
that  things  went  backward  instead  of  forward,  and 
when  she  was  so  discouraged  that,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  legless  man's  almost  fiery  confidence  in  her  ability 
to  overcome  all  obstacles,  she  must  have  taken  a 
hammer  and  pounded  her  fine  sketch  back  into  the 
lump  of  clay  from  which  it  had  been  evolved. 

Blizzard's  eyes  had  undergone  a  most  thorough 
schooling.  They  had  learned,  to  the  flicker  of  an 
eyelid,  when  Barbara  was  going  to  look  their  way, 
and  at  such  times  were  careful  not  to  meet  her  eyes. 
When,  however,  they  knew  her  to  be  intent  for  a 
period  upon  the  work  and  not  the  model,  they  studied 
her  always  with  zest,  and  always  with  more  and  more 
understanding. 

Suddenly,  one  day,  after  he  had  been  sitting  mo- 
tionless for  half  an  hour,  the  beggar  broke  his  pose. 

"Please  don't,"  she  said.    "I'm  not  through." 

In  his  eyes,  soft  and  full  of  understanding,  there 
was  a  gentle,  if  masterful,  smiling.  "Yes,  you  are," 
he  said,  "for  now.  I  haven't  watched  you  at  work 
all  these  mornings  without  learning  something  about 


THE  PENALTY  153 

the  way  you  go  at  it.  Do  you  know  what  a  blind 
alley  is?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  petulantly,  "and  I'm  in  one." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Blizzard.  "And  you're  not  taking 
the  right  way  out.  First  you  tried  to  climb  up  the 
house  on  the  right,  then  the  house  on  the  left,  and 
when  I  interrupted  you,  you  were  making  a  sixth 
effort  to  shin  up  the  lightning-rod  of  the  house  that 
blocks  the  alley." 

Barbara  laughed.  "But,"  she  objected,  "I've  got 
to  get  out  somehow — or  fake — or  call  the  thing  a 
fiasco,  and  give  it  up." 

"Of  course  you've  got  to  get  out,"  said  Blizzard, 
"and  it's  very  simple." 

"Simple!"  she  exclaimed;  "a  lot  you  know  about 
it." 

"Quite  simple,"  he  repeated;  "you  merely  face 
about  and  walk  out.  In  other  words,  remove  that 
lump  of  mud  which  one  day  is  going  to  be  more  like 
my  ear  than  my  ear  itself,  and  begin  over." 

And  it  came  home  to  Barbara  that  the  man  was 
right.  "Thank  you,"  she  said  simply.  "You're  a 
great  help.  That  is  precisely  what  I  shall  do." 

"But  don't  do  it  now." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you've  wasted  the  freshness  of  your 
early-morning  zeal  with  vain  efforts.  Destroy  what 
you've  done — there's  always  satisfaction  in  that;  but 
either  leave  the  re-doing  alone  for  to-day,  or  try  some- 
thing else." 


154  THE  PENALTY 

"When,"  said  Barbara,  beginning  to  feel  soothed 
and  confident  again,  "did  I  put  myself  in  your  hands 
for  guidance?" 

"The  moment  you  lost  your  presence  of  mind," 
said  the  beggar;  "that's  when  a  woman  always  puts 
herself  in  a  man's  hands.  Put  a  cloth  over  his  satanic 
majesty's  portrait,  and  sit  down  and  relax  your  mus- 
cles, and  talk  to  the  devil  himself." 

Barbara  did  as  he  commanded  with  the  expression 
of  a  biddable  child.  She  flung  herself  into  a  deep 
chair,  and  drew  a  long,  care-free  breath. 

"There,"  she  said,  "I  knew  I  wasn't  fit." 

"You  can't  spend  the  night  at  a  Country  Club, 
dance  till  4  A.  M.,  catch  the  7  A.  M.  for  town,  and 
do  good  work — not  always." 

"How  did  you  know  all  that?" 

Blizzard  laughed.  "From  a  man,"  said  he,  "who 
had  planned  to  rob  the  Meadowbrook  Club  last  night. 
There  is  a  fine  haul  of  scarf-pins,  and  sleeve-links,  and 
watches  and  money  in  the  bachelors'  quarters.  He 
came  to  me  in  great  dejection  and  explained  what 
very  hard  luck  he  had  had.  He  said  the  whole  place 
was  lit  up  and  full  of  people  and  music,  and  no  chance 
for  an  honest  man  to  earn  a  cent.  I  happened  to  ask 
if  you  were  there,  and  he  said  you  were.  The  train 
was  a  guess,  and  so  of  course  was  the  4  A.  M.  Will 
you  take  a  piece  of  well-meant  advice?  Either  be  a 
society  girl  or  a  sculptor.  But  don't  burn  the  candle 
at  both  ends.  You  even  look  tired,  and  that's  non- 
sense at  your  age." 


THE  PENALTY  155 

He  laughed  like  a  boy. 

"They  tell  me,"  he  said,  "that  I  could  do  the  new 
dances.  They  tell  me  they  are  just  like  clinches  in  a 
prize-fight,  and  that  only  the  novices  move  their  feet." 

Barbara's  brows  contracted.  "I'm  going  to  ask 
you  a  favor,"  she  said.  "If  you  want  to  talk  about 
your  misfortune,  God  knows  I'm  ready  to  listen.  I 
feel  some  of  the  responsibility.  But  please  don't  joke 
about  it.  We're  friends,  I  think.  And  I  like  to  for- 
get that  you're  not  exactly  like  other  people.  And 
sometimes  I  do." 

"Truly?"  His  eyes  were  full  of  suppressed  eager- 
ness and  elation. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "when  you  talk  high-mindedly 
and  generously,  as  you  can,  when  you  want  to,  I 
enjoy  being  with  you,  in  touch  with  a  mind  so  much 
more  knowing  and  able  than  my  own.  But,  now 
we've  made  a  beginning,  I'd  really  like  to  talk  about 
— all  this  dreadful  mess  that's  been  made  of  your  life, 
and  how  things  can  be  made  easier  for  you,  and  for 
my  father." 

Figuratively,  Buzzard's  tongue  went  into  his  cheek 
at  the  mention  of  Dr.  Ferris,  but  the  expression  of  his 
face  underwent  no  change.  "Of  course,"  he  said 
simply,  as  if  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world,  "I  have  forgiven  your  father.  He  was  very 
young — very  excitable — inexperienced." 

" Actually,"  she  said,  "in  your  heart,  you've  for- 
given him?  And  you're  not  saying  things  just  to 
make  me  comfortable?" 


156  THE  PENALTY 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  confessed,  "that  I  am  too  selfish 
to  say  or  do  things  just  to  make  other  people  com- 
fortable. Did  you  ever  hate  anybody?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Did  you  like  it?" 

"For  a  while  it  was  rather  fun  to  think  up  things  to 
do  to  the  person,  and  then  it  got  to  be  disagreeable, 
and  feverish,  like  a  cut  that's  festered,  and  then  I 
made  a  strong  effort,  and  found  that  hating  was  very 
poor  company  and  led  nowhere." 

"Exactly,"  said  the  beggar.  "Do  you  mind  if  I 
talk  frankly?  My  hatred  for  your  father  persisted 
a  great  many  years,  until  I  found  that  going  to  bed 
with  it  every  night  and  getting  up  with  it  every  morn- 
ing was  a  slow  poison  that  was  affecting  all  the  rest 
of  me — my  power  to  think  out  a  line  of  action,  my 
power  to  stick  to  it,  even  my  power  to  like  people 
that  were  good  to  me  and  faithful  to  my  interests. 
I  found  that  I  was  beginning  to  hate  everybody  and 
everything  in  the  world  and  the  world  itself.  Mean- 
while, Miss  Barbara,  I  did  things  that  can  never  be 
undone." 

He  was  silent,  and  appeared  to  be  turning  over  the 
leaves  in  the  books  of  his  memory.  Suddenly  he 
spoke  again. 

"And  it  was  all  so  silly,"  he  said,  "so  futile.  The 
cure  was  in  my  head  all  the  time — just  longing  to  be 
used.  And  fool  that  I  was,  I  didn't  know  it." 

"What  was  the  cure?" 

"It  was  the  sovereign  cure  for  all  our  troubles, 


THE  PENALTY  157 

Miss  Barbara — reason,  and  crowds.  Stand  morning 
or  evening  at  the  entrance  to  the  Brooklyn  Bridge — 
stand  there  with  your  trouble,  and  consider  that 
among  the  passers,  better  carried  than  yours,  are 
troubles,  far,  far  greater  than  yours,  more  poignant, 
lives  lived  in  dungeons  deeper  and  more  dark.  Your 
father  has  lived  a  life  of  most  admirable  utility:  should 
he  be  hated  for  one  mistake?  Suppose  that  it  had 
been  some  other  small  boy's  legs  that  he  wasted, 
instead  of  mine?  Would  I  hate  him  for  it?  Why, 
no.  I'd  say  it's  too  bad.  But  since  it  was  I  that  lost 
the  legs  I  lost  all  sense  of  proportion  and  justice  and 
was  a  long  time — a  long  time  coming  back  to  it." 
"May  I  know  what  brought  you  round?" 
The  beggar  felt  that  he  might  dare  a  little.  He 
smiled.  "Of  course.  What  brought  me  around  was 
the  discovery  that  he  had  created  something  far,  far 
more  important  than  what  he  had  destroyed.  At 
first  I  thought  you  were  like  so  many  other  girls  of 
your  class — well  dressed,  and  good  to  look  at.  Then 
that  you  had  a  very  genuine  talent,  and  were  going 
to  count  in  the  world.  Then,  and  this  is  best,  it  came 
over  me  that  you  were  one  girl  in  a  million — that  you 
would  do  whatever  seemed  right  to  you,  not  without 
fear  of  criticism,  and  pain  and  sacrifice,  but  regard- 
less of  them.  And  so,  you  see,  the  reparation  is  made. 
The  father  hurt,  and  the  daughter  cured." 

Barbara's  face  had  become  very  grave.  "However 
wrong  you  are  about  my  character,"  she  said,  "the 
reparation  is  not  yet  made.  And  you  may  be  sure  of 


i58  THE  PENALTY 

this — that,  whatever  the  criticism,  I  owe  you  friend- 
ship and  you  shall  have  it." 

The  beggar  trembled  inwardly,  but  he  shook  his 
head.  "You  could  hardly  pull  me  up  to  a  level,"  he 
said,  "upon  which  friendship  between  us  would  be 
possible.  Imagine  that  I  have  sunk  to  the  chin  in 
mud,  and  that  at  the  last  time  of  calling  I  have  been 
pulled  out.  Still  the  mud  clings  to  me." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Barbara,  "you  can  be  washed." 

They  both  laughed,  and  at  once  became  grave 
again. 

"You  don't  know,"  he  said,  "what  I've  been  or 
what  I've  done.  You  can't  even  imagine." 

"That  is  not  the  point,"  said  Barbara,  "and  this 
is:  Are  you  sorry?  If  you  really  have  been  rotten, 
do  you  want  to  be  sound  and  fine?  If  you  do  I'm 
your  friend,  and  whatever  help  I  can  give  you,  you 
shall  have." 

"If  you  knew,"  he  said  humbly,  "how  I  dread  the 
bust  being  finished!  I'll  be  like  a  child  stealing  a  ride 
by  the  strength  of  his  arms,  I'll  have  to  drop  off 
then — won't  I? — back  into  the  mud. " 

"I'm  not  offering  you  friendship,"  she  said,  "merely 
while  you  are  useful  to  me.  Do  well,  Mr.  Blizzard, 
and  do  good,  and  I  will  always  be  your  friend." 

"Do  you  believe  that  I  want  to  do  well,  that  I 
want  to  do  good?  That  I  want  to  wipe  the  past  from 
the  slate?" 

"You  have  only  to  tell  me,"  she  said  loyally,  "and 
I  shall  believe." 


THE  PENALTY  159 

"Then  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  and  Barbara  jumped 
impulsively  to  her  feet  and  shook  hands  with  him. 

"And  I  may  come  to  you,"  he  pleaded,  "for  advice, 
and  help?  Old  habits  are  hard  to  shake.  My  friends 
are  thieves,  crooks,  and  grafters.  My  sources  of  in- 
come are  not  clean.  Even  now  I  have  dishonest  irons 
in  the  fire.  Shall  I  pull  them  out?  " 

"Of  course." 

"But  people  who  have  trusted  me  will  be  hurt." 

"You  must  work  those  problems  out  in  your  own 
conscience." 

To  Blizzard,  believing  that  he  was  actually  making 
progress  into  the  fastnesses  of  her  heart,  and  that  he 
might  in  time  gain  his  ends  by  propinquity  and  his 
own  undeniable  force  and  personality,  a  sudden, 
cheeky  knocking  upon  the  door  proved  intensely  irri- 
tating. It  was  a  very  small  messenger-boy  with  a 
box  of  jonquils.  Blizzard  watched  very  closely  the 
expression  of  Barbara's  face  while  she  opened  the 
box.  She  held  up  the  flowers  for  him  to  see. 

"Aren't  they  pretty?"  she  said. 

"They  are  very  pretty,"  said  Blizzard,  and  he 
found  it  difficult  to  control  his  voice.  "And  it  was 
very  sweet  of  him  to  send  them.  Isn't  that  the  rest 
of  the  speech?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Barbara  gayly. 

She  lifted  the  flowers  until  the  lower  half  of  her 
face  was  hidden. 

"Mr.  Allen,  I  suppose,"  said  the  beggar. 

"Why  should  you  suppose  that?"  said  Barbara,  a 
little  coldly.  "There  is  no  card." 


160  THE  PENALTY 

Blizzard  felt  his  mistake.  And  Barbara  felt  that 
he  felt  it.  She  went  into  the  next  room  for  a  vase  of 
water,  and  returned  presently  with  heightened  color. 
She  had  heard  Harry  West's  slow  grave  voice  ex- 
plaining something  to  Bubbles.  Her  heart  told  her 
that  West  had  sent  the  flowers,  and  she  meant  to  get 
rid  of  Blizzard  and  find  out.  So,  the  vase  of  flowers 
in  one  hand,  she  held  out  the  other  to  him,  and  said: 

"To-morrow." 

Blizzard  was  loath  to  go,  but  he  felt  that  there  was 
a  certain  finality  in  her  voice,  and  he  swung  out  of 
the  studio,  his  heart  gnawed  with  jealousy. 


XVIII 

THROUGH  Bubbles,  Harry  West  received  the  happy 
news  that  Miss  Ferris  wished  to  speak  with  him. 
But  when  he  saw  her  with  the  vase  of  jonquils  in 
her  hand,  and  the  empty  box  in  which  they  had  come 
at  her  feet,  his  stout  heart  failed  him  a  little. 

"Mr.  West,"  said  Barbara,  "some  person  is  annoy- 
ing me." 

"Annoying  you?" 

"I  am  continually  receiving  flowers  without  card  or 
comment." 

"Is  it  the  flowers  which  annoy  you  or  the  lack  of 
comment?" 

"I  love  the  flowers,  but  anything  in  the  shape  of 
anonymity  is  unfair,  and  I  resent  it." 

"I  can  think  of  cases,"  said  West,  "in  which  a 
man  might  properly  send  flowers  without  disclosing 
his  identity — just  as  I  may  pass  a  fine  statue  and 
praise  it,  without  telling  the  statue  who  I  am."  He 
smiled. 

"Flowers  don't  resemble  statues  in  the  least,  and 
your  comparison  is  unnaturally  far-fetched.  Another 
thing,  and  this  annoys  me  even  more:  my  secretive 
friend  sends  flowers  from  the  cheapest  florist  he  can 
find.  I  argue  from  this  that  he  is  poor,  and  cannot 
afford  to  send  me  flowers  at  all." 

161 


162  THE  PENALTY 

"Perhaps  his  home  and  business  in  the  city  are  too 
far  from  the  Fifth  Avenue  shops." 

"You  are  not  saying  gallant  things,  Mr.  West.  I 
— an  unprotected  young  woman — tell  you  that  I  am 
being  annoyed  by  a  strange  man.  Instead  of  flying 
into  a  chivalrous  rage  and  threatening  to  wring  his 
neck  when  you  catch  him,  you  stand  up  for  him. 
Very  well.  I  shall  set  Bubbles  to  find  out  who  the 
man  is,  and  take  my  own  steps  in  the  matter." 

Her  expression  was  grave  and  unruffled,  though  a 
certain  look  of  amusement  might  have  been  detected 
in  her  eyes,  by  a  youth  less  embarrassed  than  Mr. 
West  was. 

"Don't  do  that,"  he  said;  "Bubbles  could  never 
find  out.  You  wish  to  know  who  is  sending  you 
flowers?" 

"Very  much.     Can  you  find  out? " 

"I  think  so.    I  mean,  I'm  sure  I  can." 

"And  when  you  have  found  him  will  you  point  out 
to  him  that  in  the  future  he  must  be  open  and  above- 
board,  or  something  disagreeable  will  be  done  to 
him?" 

Mr.  West  bowed  humbly. 

"How  long,"  she  asked,  "will  it  take  you  to  run 
the  creature  down?  " 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  West,  "I  could  go  to  the  florist 
whose  name  is  on  the  box,  show  my  badge,  and  exact 
a  description  of  the  man  who  bought  the  flowers. 
Then  I  could  give  you  the  description,  and  if  you 
knew  any  such  man " 


He  saw  her  with  the  vase  of  jonquils 
in  her  hand  .  .  .  and  his  stout 
heart  failed  him  a  little 


THE  PENALTY  163 

"The  florist,"  said  Barbara,  her  expression  Sphinx- 
like,  "is  just  'round  the  corner." 

"I  hear,"  said  Mr.  West,  "and  I  obey." 

"I  will  read  a  book  till  you  come  back,"  said  Bar- 
bara. 

But  she  didn't  read  a  book;  she  leaned  instead 
from  a  window  and  watched  for  Mr.  West  to  come 
out  of  the  studio-building.  He  came  presently,  but 
did  not  turn  east  in  search  of  the  florist.  Neither 
did  he  descend  the  steps.  Instead,  he  took  out  his 
watch  and  sat  down,  and  waited.  Barbara  in  great 
glee  watched  him  for  ten  minutes.  She  was  possessed 
of  a  devilish  longing  to  fashion  out  of  paper  a  small 
water-bomb  and  drop  it  on  his  head.  Memories  of 
water-bombs  brought  up  memories  of  Wilmot  Allen 
and  old  days.  She  drew  back  from  the  window  and 
was  no  longer  gleeful.  Why  should  men  trouble  her 
heart,  since  she  wished  and  had  elected  to  live,  not  a 
woman's  life  but  a  man's?  She  paced  the  studio, 
her  soul  at  odds  with  the  rest  of  her. 

Had  she  ever  encouraged  Wilmot?  Yes.  West? 
Yes.  And  about  a  dozen  others.  And  here  she 
struck  her  left  palm  with  her  right  fist.  She  had  even 
encouraged  a  man  who  had  committed  all  the  crimes 
in  the  calendar  and  was  only  half  a  man  at  that! 
Half  a  man?  She  was  not  sure.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain compelling  force  about  him  which  at  times  made 
him  seem  more  of  a  man  to  her  than  all  the  rest  of 
them  put  together.  "I  can't  imagine  him  in  love," 
she  thought.  "It's  really  too  revolting.  But  if  he 


164  THE  PENALTY 

was,  I  can  imagine  nothing  that  he  would  let  stand 
in  his  way.  I  wonder  if  he  is  married.  And  if  he  is 
I  pity  her.  And  yet  she  could  say  to  other  women, 
'My  husband  is  a  man,'  and  most  of  the  women  I 
know  can't  say  that." 

And  she  remembered  her  father's  perfectly  ridic- 
ulous suggestion  that  perhaps  the  man  so  wronged  by 
him  had  lifted  his  eyes  to  herself.  The  idea  no  longer 
seemed  ridiculous;  but  quite  possible  and  equally 
dreadful.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
sacrifice  her  immediate  chances  of  recognition  and 
fame  and  tell  the  beggar  to  discontinue  his  visits. 
Then  she  withdrew  the  cloth  from  her  work,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  what  she  had  made  was  alive  and 
had  about  it  a  certain  sublimity,  and  that  to  surrender 
now  was  beyond  her  strength.  She  had  a  moment  of 
exultation,  and  she  thought:  "In  a  hundred  years  my 
body  will  be  dust.  It  doesn't  matter  what  becomes 
of  it  now  or  hereafter;  but  people  will  gather  in  front 
of  this  head,  and  artists  will  come  from  all  over  the 
world  to  see  it.  And  there  will  be  plaster  casts  of  it 
in  city  museums  and  village  libraries.  And  I  suppose 
I'm  the  most  conceited  idiot  in  the  world,  but — but 
it's  good.  I  know  it's  good!" 

She  had  forgotten  West,  and  Allen,  and  Blizzard, 
so  that  when  the  first-named  knocked,  she  had  some 
ado  to  come  out  of  the  clouds  and  recall  what  they 
had  been  talking  about.  Then,  not  wishing  to  drive 
West  into  a  lie,  she  said  only: 

"Have  you  the  man's  description?" 


THE  PENALTY  165 

"He  is  not,"  said  West  gravely,  "a  man  in  your 
station  in  life.  He  is,  I  imagine,  some  young  fellow 
to  whom,  in  passing,  you  have  been  carelessly  gra- 
cious." 

"Is  he  handsome?"  Mischief  had  returned  to  her 
mind. 

"He  is  only  bigger  and  stronger  than  usual." 

"Dark  or  light?" 

"Medium." 

"And  how  long  did  it  take  you  to  find  out  all  these 
interesting  items?" 

"Twelve  minutes,"  said  West  gravely. 

"By  the  clock?" 

"By  a  dollar  watch.  .  .  .  Miss  Ferris,  I  haven't 
done  right.  I'm  not  doing  right." 

This  came  very  suddenly.  He  had  lowered  his  fine 
head  and  was  frowning. 

"I'm  the  man  who's  been  sending  you  flowers.  I 
didn't  know  it  was  wrong.  I'm  not  a  gentleman. 
But  once  I'd  seen  you,  I  could  never  see  flowers  with- 
out thinking  of  you,  so  I  kept  sending  them,  hoping 
that  they  would  give  you  pleasure  for  their  own  sake. 
I  had  no  business  even  to  look  at  you.  To  win  the 
kind  of  race  I'm  up  against,  a  man  ought  to  keep  his 
eyes  in  the  boat,  and  not  look  right  or  left  till  his  race 
is  won  or  lost.  And  even  then  it  ought  to  be  right 
or  left  that  he  looks,  and  not  up,  and  certainly  not 
down.  I  didn't  keep  my  eyes  in  the  boat.  I  looked 
up,  'way  up,  and  saw  you,  and  caught  a  crab  that 
threw  the  whole  boat  out  of  trim.  I've  no  excuse, 


166  THE  PENALTY 

only  this — that  I  haven't  ever  before  even  looked 
right  or  left  or  down.  But  it's  all  right  now.  No- 
body's hurt.  I  won't  come  any  more  to  watch  over 
you.  The  lines  are  closing  round  Blizzard,  and  he 
knows  it.  His  claws  are  pulled.  He's  got  to  toe  a 
chalk-line,  and  you're  as  safe  with  him  as  with  the 
Bishop  of  London." 

Barbara  said  nothing.     She  felt  very  unhappy. 

"One  thing  more.  As  long  as  I  did  forget  the 
work  in  hand,  as  long  as  I  did  look  up,  why,  I'd  like 
to  thank  God,  in  your  presence,  that  it  was  you  I 
saw.  Because  in  all  the  whole  world  there  is  nobody 
so  beautiful  or  so  blind." 

He  thrust  out  his  hand  almost  roughly,  caught  hers, 
said  good-by,  and  turned  to  go. 

"Please  wait,"  said  Barbara.  And  she  said  it  quite 
contrary  to  reason,  which  told  her  that  it  would  be 
kinder  to  let  the  young  man  go  without  comments. 

"You've  done  nothing  wrong,"  she  went  on,  "and 
I  can't  help  being  pleased  by  the  flowers  and  knowing 
that  you  think  I  am  all  sorts  of  things  that  I'm  not. 
If  you  really  like  me  a  good  deal,  don't  go  away  look- 
ing as  if  the  world  had  come  to  an  end.  I  think  you 
are  a  fine  person,  and  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  be 
your  friend." 

There  was  agony  in  West's  eyes.  ' '  My  friendship, ' ' 
he  said,  "can  never  be  any  special  pleasure  to  you. 
And  seeing  you — even  once  a  year — would  keep  alive 
things  that  hurt  me,  and  that  never  ought  to  have 
been  born,  and  that  were  better  dead." 


THE  PENALTY  167 

"'  Faint  heart—  "  Barbara  began,  and  could  have 
bitten  out  her  tongue,  since  she  had  so  often  promised 
herself  that  she  would  never  again  encourage  anybody. 

The  agony  died  in  Harry  West's  eyes,  and  there 
came  instead  a  look  of  great  gentleness,  compassion, 
and  understanding. 

"May  I  say  things  to  you  that  are  none  of  my  busi- 
ness?" he  asked.  She  nodded  briefly,  and  he  went 
on:  "You  mustn't  say  things  like  that.  You  have  a 
race  to  row,  too,  but  your  beautiful  eyes  are  all  over 
the  place!" 

"I  knew  I  was  a  rotter,"  said  Barbara,  "but  I 
didn't  know  it  was  obvious  to  everybody." 

"To  eyes,"  said  West  gently,  "in  a  certain  condi- 
tion lots  of  things  are  obvious  that  other  people 
wouldn't  see.  May  I  still  say  things?  " 

"Don't  spare  me." 

"You  love  to  attract  men.  And  if  you  happen  to 
hurt  them,  you  think  you  are  a  rotter.  That  isn't 
true.  You're  being  pulled  two  ways.  Art  pulls  you 
one — the  way  you  think  you  want  to  go — and  nature 
pulls  you  the  way  you  really  want  to  go.  Men  at- 
tract you  to  a  certain  extent.  I  can  almost  feel  that 
— and  you  tire  of  them,  and  think  it's  because  you 
haven't  got  the  capacity  for  really  caring.  That  isn't 
true  either.  You  have  infinite  capacities  for  caring, 
but  as  yet  you  haven't  been  attracted  to  the  man 
you  are  really  going  to  care  for." 

Barbara  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "How 
do  you  know  I  haven't?" 


168  THE  PENALTY 

He  returned  the  look,  as  if  doubting  what  he  should 
say  or  do.  Then  he  drew  a  deep  breath  to  steady 
himself. 

"Perhaps  you  have.  But  I  know  very  well  that 
it  is  not  the  man  you  think,  at  this  moment.  You 
are  in  the  hunting  stage,  and  you  didn't  know  it. 
Now  that  you  do  know — unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken 
— I  think  you  will  try  very  hard  not  to  hurt  people, 
not  to  let  them  have  wild  dreams  of  something  doing 
in  the  future." 

"But  if  I  really  think " 

"Then  be  secret  until  you  know." 

"And  if  everything  that  is  me  seems  to  be  going 
out  to  a  certain  man 

"Then  be  secret  until  it  has  really  gone  out  to  him." 

"I  don't  know  why  I  let  you  talk  to  me  like  this." 

"There  you  go  again,"  he  said,  and  she  bit  her  lips. 
"It  is  very  awful  for  me,"  he  said,  "to  think  that  I 
have  raised  my  voice  in  any  criticism  or  disparage- 
ment of  you." 

"Oh,  it's  all  true,  and  it's  all  deserved." 

"But  you  are  like  that.  And  all  at  the  same  time 
it's  your  greatest  strength  and  your  greatest  weakness, 
and  for  the  right  man,  when  he  comes  along,  it  will 
be  his  greatest  treasure.  ...  I  don't  like  to  say 
good-by.  It  comes  hard." 

"If  I  said,  'Don't  say  good-by/  would  I  be  break- 
ing the  rules?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "for  I  could  never  be  the  right 
man." 


When  Bubbles  had  trotted  off,   she 
dropped  into  her  chair  and  cried 


THE  PENALTY  169 


'Not  even  if- 


"Not  even  if — and  you  will  have  forgotten  any 
kindness  that  you  felt  for  me,  while  I  am  still  wondering 
why  the  city  is  so  empty,  that  once  seemed  so  full." 

The  tears  sprang  into  Barbara's  eyes.  "Is  there 
anything  about  me  that  you  don't  know?"  she  asked 
bitterly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  know  that  if  you  asked  me  to  marry  you, 
I  should  say  yes?  " 

"And  I  know  that  I  am  not  going  to  ask  you. 
There  are  two  reasons.  You  don't  love  me.  And  I 
do  love  you." 

Her  arms  dropped  limply  to  her  sides. 

"And  it  shall  never  be  said  of  me,"  he  said  proudly, 
"  that  I  dragged  any  one  down.  .  .  .  Will  you  promise 
me  something?" 

"If  you  care  to  trust  me  to  keep  promises  or  to  do 
anything  that's  right  and  honest." 

"Only  promise  to  keep  your  eyes  in  the  boat. 
Don't  help  a  poor  dog  of  a  man  into  love  with  you. 
And  don't  help  yourself  into  love  with  him.  When 
the  right  man  comes  along,  he  will  make  you  love  him, 
and  then  you  will  be  sure." 

"I  will  promise,"  said  Barbara  simply,  "and  I  never 
knew  how  rotten  I  was.  And  I'm  glad  you've  told 
me.  If  it's  any  comfort  to  you — you've  helped. 
And  nobody  ever  helped  before.  I  shall  always  be 
proud  to  remember  that  you  loved  me.  And  I'll 
keep  my  eyes  in  the  boat." 


THE  PENALTY 

"And  that,"  said  Mr.  West,  "is  where  I'll  keep 
mine,  only,  if  it's  nothing  to  you,  I'll  remember  some- 
times how  the  moon  looked  that  time  I  looked  up." 

She  stood  uncertain. 

"It's  kind  of  awkward,"  he  said,  "sometimes  to 
make  a  clean  break.  Good  luck  to  you.  And  don't 
feel  sorry  about  me.  And  be  true  to  yourself.  And 
if  you  ever  really  need  me  for  anything  tell  Bubbles. 
He  knows  where  to  find  me,  when  anybody  does." 

A  few  minutes  later  Barbara  was  asking  Bubbles  if 
he  happened  to  know  Mr.  Harry  West's  address. 

"He  won't  be  coming  back  here,"  she  said,  "and  I 
want  to  send  him  a  book." 

"I'll  deliver  it,"  said  Bubbles.  "He  don't  keep 
no  regular  address.  You  have  to  catch  him  on  the 
run." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "take  him  this,  with  my 
very  best  thanks  and  my  very  best  wishes." 

And  she  gave  Bubbles  a  charmingly  bound  copy  of 
Rostand's  "Far-Away  Princess,"  and  when  Bubbles 
had  trotted  off,  she  dropped  into  her  chair  and  cried 
because  she  thought  she  had  broken  poor  West's 
heart.  But  there  was  stern  stuff  in  his  heart,  and 
exultation,  for  he  knew  that  in  the  supreme  test  of 
his  life,  he  had  thought  only  of — her. 


XIX 

"THERE,  everything  is  understood,"  said  Blizzard; 
"we  are  agreed  upon  the  i$th  of  next  January.  And 
you  can  bring  enough  men  on  from  the  West  to  do 
the  work?" 

O'Hagan,  thick-set,  black,  bristling,  nodded  across 
the  table.  "You  have  guaranteed  the  money  and 
the  hats,"  he  said;  "I  will  guarantee  the  men. 
What's  behind  that  door?" 

"Nothing  but  a  junk-closet,"  said  Blizzard. 
"Drink  something." 

O'Hagan  poured  three  fingers  of  dark  whiskey  into 
a  short  glass  and  drank  it  at  one  gulp.  "After  that 
one,"  he  said,  "the  wagon  until  the  i5th." 

"Yes,"  said  Blizzard  with  some  grimness.  "There 
must  be  no  frolicking.  And  mind  this,  Jimmie:  the 
more  good  American  citizens  who  don't  speak  Eng- 
lish that  you  can  corral  the  better.  We  don't  want 
intelligence.  We  want  blind  obedience  with  a  hope 
of  gain.  And  they  mustn't  know  what  they  are  to 
do  till  it's  time  to  do  it.  They  should  begin  to  come 
into  the  city  by  the  middle  of  December,  a  few  at  a 
time.  Let  'em  come  to  me  half  a  dozen  at  once  for 
money,  weapons,  and  orders." 

Again  O'Hagan  nodded.  This  time  he  rose,  and 
the  two  shook  hands  across  the  table.  O'Hagan 

171 


i72  THE  PENALTY 

seemed  to  labor  under  a  certain  emotion;  but  Bliz- 
zard was  calm. 

"Keep  me  posted,"  he  said,  "and  for  God's  sake, 
Jimmie,  cut  out  the  little  things.  You're  in  big  now. 
Forget  your  troubles  and  your  wrongs.  Leave  liquor 
alone  and  dynamite.  Remember  that  on  the  i5th 
of  next  January  you  and  I'll  be  square  at  last  with 
law  and  order  and  oppression.  Good  luck  to  you!" 

When  O'Hagan  had  gone  Blizzard  moved  his  chair 
so  that  it  faced  the  door  of  the  junk-closet.  And  he 
smiled  occasionally  as  if  he  were  one  of  an  audience 
at  some  diverting  play.  From  time  to  time  he  took 
a  drink  of  whiskey  and  licked  his  lips.  An  hour 
passed,  two  hours,  and  always  the  legless  man  kept 
his  agate  eyes  upon  the  closet  door. 

When  two  hours  and  fifteen  minutes  had  gone,  he 
drew  an  automatic  pistol  from  his  pocket,  and  held 
it  ready  for  instant  use.  A  few  minutes  later,  find- 
ing his  original  plan  of  humor  a  little  tedious  in  the 
working  out,  he  spoke  in  a  clear,  incisive  voice: 

"Better  come  out  of  that  now  or  I  shall  begin  to 
shoot." 

The  door  opened,  and  Rose  staggered  into  the 
room.  After  a  short  pause,  during  which  she  swayed 
and  gasped  for  breath,  an  automatic  pistol  fell  with 
a  clatter  from  her  nerveless  fingers.  She  sank  to  the 
floor  all  in  a  heap  and  began  to  cry  hysterically. 

Blizzard  slid  from  his  chair  and  secured  her  pistol. 
His  face  wore  an  expression  of  amused  tolerance. 
"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  said.  "Crying  can't  do 


The  door  opened,  and  Rose  staggered 
into  the  room 


THE  PENALTY  173 

any  good,  and  talking  may.  You  hid  in  the  closet 
to  listen.  It's  not  the  first  time.  I  found  one  of 
your  combs,  and  saw  where  you'd  brushed  away  the 
dirt  so's  not  to  spoil  your  dress.  Now  I'd  like  to 
know  how  much  you  know,  and  whom  you've  told  it 
to?" 

"What's  the  use?"  said  Rose  with  sudden  despera- 
tion. "You've  got  me — nobody '11  ever  know  from 
me  what  I've  heard  to-night.  You're  going  to  kill 
me." 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Blizzard.  "Now  look  up  and 
tell  me  all  about  everything." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I've  been  spying  on  you." 

"I  know  that.  I  knew  that  the  day  you  came. 
When  you  said  you  loved  me  I  knew  you  were  lying." 

"At  first,"  she  said,  "I  passed  over  everything  I 
could  find  out  about  you.  It  wasn't  much." 

"I  took  care  of  that." 

"Then  I  made  up  things — just  to  keep  the  others 
from  knowing  I  wasn't  playing  fair.  I  wanted  to  put 
that  off  as  long  as  I  could.  Anything  I  really  found 
out — like  your  first  talk  with  O'Hagan — I  just  kept 
to  myself.  I  know  I  lied  to  you  the  first  day.  But 
I'm  not  lying  now." 

The  legless  man  smiled  tolerantly.  "Why  did  you 
keep  on  trying  to  find  out  things — if  you  didn't  mean 
to  use  them?  " 

"Because  I  wanted  to  know  all  about  you,  what 
you  were  doing,  what  your  interests  were.  I  thought 
I  could  be  more  useful  to  you  that  way." 


i74  THE  PENALTY 

"It's  a  good  thing  for  you,  Rose,"  said  Blizzard, 
"that  I  guessed  all  this.  If  I  hadn't  you  wouldn't  be 
alive  now.  And  so,  now  that  you've  gotten  to  know 
me  pretty  well,  there's  something  about  me,  is  there, 
that's  knocked  your  ambitions  galley- west?  " 

"I  had  friends  that  trusted  me,"  she  said,  "and 
I've  played  double  with  them.  And  now  I've  got 
only  you." 

"Tell  me  one  thing,"  and  Blizzard  asked  the  ques- 
tion with  some  eagerness,  "what  particular  quality  of 
mine  got  you  to  feeling  this  way  about  me?" 

"I  guess  it's  every  quality  now,"  said  Rose,  "but 
it  started  with  me  the  first  time  I  heard  you  play, 
and  knew  that,  whatever  you'd  been  and  done,  and 
were  planning  to  do,  you  had  a  soul  above  it  all. 
And  I  knew  that  if  your  soul  had  ever  had  a  fair 
chance  you'd  have  been  more  like  a  god  than  a  man." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Blizzard  after  a  long  silence, 
"perhaps.  Who  knows!  And  so  it  was  the  music 
that  changed  your  heart?  Well,  why  not?  Nobody 
makes  better  music — unless  it's  Hofman." 

The  idea  of  appealing  to  the  heart  of  quite  another 
girl  through  his  music  filled  the  legless  man  with  a 
wild  hoping.  Why  not?  If  he  could  play  himself 
clean  out  of  hell  whenever  he  pleased,  why  not  an- 
other? He  would  not  tell  her  the  possibilities  of  no- 
bility that  yet  remained  in  him.  He  would  play  them 
to  her. 

"Rose,"  he  said,  "you're  the  best  pedaller  I  ever 
had.  You've  got  music  in  you.  We'll  practise  up 


THE  PENALTY  175 

and  give  a  concert.  I'll  ask  some  nobs  in.  We'll  turn 
the  piano  so  that  seeing  how  the  pedalling  is  done 
won't  distract  their  attention  from  the  music.  But 
they  won't  hear  our  music,  Rose.  It  will  be  better 
than  that.  They  shall  roll  in  it,  bathe  in  it,  see 
heaven!" 

"That's  what  I  saw." 

Blizzard's  agate  eyes  glinted  with  a  strange  light. 
It  was  as  if  the  beast  in  him  was  fighting  with  the 
God.  But  gradually  all  mercifulness,  all  pity,  went 
out,  and  the  fires  which  remained  were  not  good  to  see. 

He  kissed  her  and  she  kissed  him  back. 


XX 

FEELING  that  she  had  been  working  too  hard,  being 
in  much  distress  about  Harry  West,  and  in  some  for 
herself,  and  learning  that  Wilmot  Allen  was  to  be  of 
the  party,  Barbara  told  Blizzard,  at  the  end  of  his 
sitting  on  Friday,  that  he  need  not  come  Saturday, 
as  she  was  going  to  spend  the  week-end  with  the 
Bruces  at  Meadowbrook. 

"I'm  dog-tired,"  she  said,  "and  that's  the  same  as 
being  discouraged.  We  both  need  a  rest.  Things 
have  been  at  a  stand-still  nearly  all  the  week." 

"I  think  you  are  right  about  yourself,"  said  Bliz- 
zard, "but  won't  your  gay  friends  keep  you  up  till 
all  hours?" 

"They  will  not"  said  Barbara,  "  and  it  won't  be 
gay.  During  a  falling  market  there  are  never  more 
than  two  happy  people  at  the  largest  Long  Island 
house-party.  The  men  will  sit  by  themselves  and 
drink  very  solemnly.  The  women  will  sit  by  them- 
selves and  yawn  till  ten  o'clock.  It  will  be  very  bor- 
ing and  very  restful." 

"Speaking  of  falling  markets,  is  my  friend  Mr. 
Allen  to  be  among  those  present?  I  understand  that 
he  has  been  very  hard  hit." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Barbara.  "He 
often  is.  Yes,  he  is  to  be  among  those  present,  and 

176 


THE  PENALTY  177 

I'm  really  going  just  to  have  a  chance  to  talk  to  him." 

11  With  him  or  to  him?"  asked  Blizzard  with  one  of 
his  sudden,  dazzling  smiles. 

"To  him,"  said  Barbara,  also  smiling.  "I,  too, 
have  listened  to  tales  out  of  school,  and  since  he  is 
my  oldest  friend,  and  probably  my  best,  he  must  be 
straightened  out." 

"A  little  absence  from  New  York,  perhaps,"  sug- 
gested Blizzard,  and  watched  her  face  closely. 

"Do  you  think  so?  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  neces- 
sary to  run  away  in  order  to  straighten  out." 

"Mr.  Allen,"  said  Blizzard,  "should  swear  off 
stock-gambling,  and  marry  a  rich  girl." 

"He's  not  that  kind,"  said  Barbara  simply.  And 
this  swift,  loyal  statement  did  not  please  the  beggar, 
since  it  argued  more  to  his  mind  of  the  faith  that  goes 
with  love  than  of  that  appertaining  to  friendship. 
He  felt  a  sharp  stab  of  jealousy,  and  had  some  ado 
to  keep  the  pain  of  it  from  showing  in  his  face. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  anybody  can  help  him,  you 
can.  And  if  you  can't,  send  him  to  me.  Oh,  we've 
had  dealings  before  now.  I  was  even  of  real  service 
to  him  once." 

"If  that  is  true,"  Barbara  thought,  "it's  rather 
rotten  of  Wilmot  to  keep  running  this  poor  soul 
down." 

Blizzard  left  with  obvious  reluctance.  Two  whole 
days  without  a  sight  of  Miss  Ferris  seemed  a  very 
long  time  to  him.  "I  shall  miss  these  morning  loaf- 
ings." 


178  THE  PENALTY 

"Is  that  what  you  call  posing?" 

"What  else?  You  loaf  now.  Good  luck  to  the 
tired  eye  and  hand." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Barbara.  "Next  week  we'll 
see  if  we  can't  really  get  somewhere." 

"We  shall  try,"  said  Blizzard.  He  turned  at  the 
door.  "I  want  to  play  for  you  some  time,"  he  said. 
"May  I?" 

"Why,  yes — of  course." 

"At  my  place,"  he  said.  "I  have  a  new  piano  in; 
it's  very  good.  You  see,  I  pound  four  or  five  of  them 
to  pieces  in  the  course  of  a  year.  I  thought  perhaps 
you'd  bring  two  or  three  or  more  of  your  friends  who 
like  music.  I  know  you  do.  I'll  give  you  supper. 
Your  friends  might  think  it  was  a  good  slumming 
spree  to  come  to  a  concert  at  my  house.  And  I 
particularly  want  to  play  for  you.  I  go  for  weeks 
without  playing,  and  then  the  wish  comes." 

She  longed  to  ask  him  how  he  worked  the  pedals, 
and  had  to  bite  the  question  back. 

He  laughed,  reading  her  mind.  "If  you  come," 
he  said,  "I  will  try  to  make  you  forget  what  I  am — 
even  what  I  look  like.  I  should  like  you  to  know 
what  I  might  have  been — what  I  still  might  be." 
He  went  out  abruptly  and  closed  the  door  after  him. 

Barbara  mused  for  a  minute  and  then  rang  for 
Bubbles.  "I'm  going  out  of  town  for  over  Sunday," 
she  said.  "What  will  you  do? " 

"Me  and  Harry,"  said  he,  "is  going  down  to  the 
sea  swimming." 


THE  PENALTY  179 

"Please  give  Harry  my  best  wishes,  Bubbles." 

The  great  eyes  held  hers  for  a  minute  and  were 
turned  away.  He  was  sharp  enough  to  know  that 
through  one  of  his  idols  the  other  had  been  hurt. 
And  he  found  the  knowledge  sorrowful  and  heavy. 

"I'll  do  that,"  he  said  solemnly. 

That  afternoon  Wilmot  Allen  drove  Barbara  down 
to  Meadowbrook.  He  had  borrowed  a  sixty-horse- 
power runabout  for  the  occasion,  but  displayed  no 
anxiety  to  put  the  machine  through  its  higher  paces. 
"I've  had  a  rough  week,"  he  said,  "and  my  nerves 
are  shaky.  Do  you  mind  if  we  take  our  time?" 

"No,"  said  Barbara,  "my  nerves  are  shaky,  too. 
And  I  want  to  talk  to  you  without  having  the  words 
blown  out  of  my  mouth  and  scattered  all  over  Long 
Island." 

He  bowed  over  the  steering-wheel,  and  said:  "It's 
good  to  know  that  you  want  to  talk  to  me.  Is  it  to 
be  about  you,  about  me — or  us?  " 

Barbara  leaned  luxuriously  against  the  scientifi- 
cally placed  cushion,  all  her  muscles  relaxed.  "You," 
she  said,  "are  to  play  several  parts,  Wilmot." 

"And  always  one,"  he  answered  softly. 

"Not  now,"  she  said,  "please.  First  you  are  to 
play  priest,  and  listen  to  confession.  Then  you  are 
to  confess,  or  I  am  to  do  it  for  you,  and  receive 
penance." 

"While  I'm  priest,"  he  said,  "do  I  impose  any 
penance  on  you?  " 

"I'll  listen  to  suggestions,"  said  she,  "that  point 
toward  absolution." 


i8o  THE  PENALTY 

"I  am  now  clothed  in  my  priestly  outfit,"  said 
Wilmot;  "you  have  entered  the  confessional.  I 
listen." 

Very  simply,  without  preamble,  she  plunged  into 
her  affair  with  Harry  West.  And  Wilmot  listened, 
his  head  bent  forward  over  the  steering-wheel.  It 
was  not  pleasant  for  him  to  learn  that  she  had  thought 
herself  seriously  in  love  with  another  man,  and  was 
not  now  in  the  least  sure  of  her  feelings  toward  him. 

"I  cried  almost  all  night,"  she  said;  "it  didn't 
seem  as  if  I  could  bear  it." 

"How  about  the  next  night,  Barbs?" 

"Oh,  I  slept,"  she  said,  "or  thought  about  work." 

"And  he  told  you  that  you  mustn't  see  each  other 
any  more?" 

"Yes." 

"I  think  he  was  right,  Barbs.  I  don't  believe  you 
really  love  him,  dear.  If  you  did  you  would  have 
cried  for  many  nights  and  days — felt  like  it,  I  mean, 
all  the  time.  Men  attract  you — they  drop  out  for 
some  reason  or  other — and  so  on.  I  know  pretty 
well." 

"That's  just  what  he  said,"  said  Barbara,  "and  it's 
true,  Wilmot.  I'm  almost  sure  now  that  I  don't 
really  love  him.  And  that's  ugly  enough.  But  it's 
worse  to  think  that  he  really  loves  me,  and  that  it's 
my  fault." 

Wilmot  Allen  did  not  make  the  mistake  of  saying 
that  it  was  not  her  fault.  "It  just  shows,  Barbs 
dear,"  he  said,  "that  it's  time  to  pull  up.  You've 
got  more  darned  temperament  than  anybody  I  ever 


THE  PENALTY  181 

saw.  It's  a  great  weapon,  but  you've  got  to  learn  to 
control  it,  and  not  swing  it  wild  and  hurt  people." 

"That's  what  he  said." 

"Well,  he  seems  to  be  a  sensible  fellow,  and  a  fine 
fellow,  and  to  have  thought  of  you  rather  than  him- 
self. You  told  him  you'd  marry  him  if  he  asked 
you?  Now,  Barbs,  listen  to  me.  That  was  a  fool 
thing  to  say." 

"I  know  it." 

"Do  you  realize  how  lucky  you  are  to  have  said  it 
to  West  instead  of  to  some  other  fellow  who  happened 
to  be  on  the  make?  You've  come  through  your 
young  life  almost  entirely  by  good  luck,  not  by  good 
management.  You've  run  up  against  honorable  men, 
instead  of  rotters.  That's  the  answer." 

"I  should  think,  feeling  this  way,  you'd  hate  and 
despise  me." 

His  hand  left  the  steering-wheel  and  gave  hers  a 
swift  pat. 

"Well,  it's  over,"  she  said,  "and  I  wanted  you  to 
know.  I'm  going  to  pull  back  in  my  shell  and  be 
very  dignified  and  honorable.  If  anybody  wants  to 
get  hurt  through  me,  they've  got  to  hurt  themselves." 

"You'll  not  try  to  see  West  any  more?" 

"No,"  she  said  rather  wearily,  "that's  over.  And 
it's  for  the  best.  I've  had  a  good  lesson.  No  man 
ought  ever  to  take  me  seriously  until  I've  told  him 
every  day  for  a  year  that  I  love  him.  Maybe  two 
years." 

"Just  tell  me  once — "  he  began. 


182  THE  PENALTY 

"Don't,"  she  said,  "please.    Now  you  confess." 

"Well,  Barbs,"  he  said,  "this  week-end  is  a  sort  of 
good-by.  I'm  in  very  deep,  and  I'm  going  to  a  new 
place  to  live  a  new  life." 

"Well!"  she  exclaimed,  "you're  not  running  away?" 

"Only  from  temptation,"  he  said.  "I  have  spoken 
to  all  my  creditors  but  one,  and  they  have  behaved 
decently  and  kindly.  Wherever  I  go  I  take  my  obli- 
gations with  me,  and,  God  willing,  they  shall  all  be 
paid." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  think  a  man  ought  to  make 
good  in  the  midst  of  his  temptations." 

"Might  just  as  well  say  that  you  ought  to  finish 
your  bust  of  Blizzard  with  one  hand  tied  behind  your 
back,  since  it's  a  constant  temptation  to  you  to  use 
both.  You  ought  also  to  be  blindfolded  and  to  work 
in  the  dark,  since  you  are  constantly  tempted  to  look 
at  your  model  and  see  what  you  are  doing." 

"I  shall  miss  you,"  she  said  simply,  "like  every- 
thing. Why " 

"Why  what?" 

"It  fills  the  future  with  blanks  that  can't  be  filled 
in." 

"That  may  or  may  not  be,  Barbs.  If  they  can't 
be  filled  in,  you  will  write  to  me,  and  I  will  come 
back." 

"But  I  don't  mean " 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  what  you  mean.  But 
you  aren't  Barbs  now;  you  are  my  confessor.  I  con- 
fess to  you,  then,  that  I  am  in  pretty  much  the  same 


THE  PENALTY  183 

boat  with  Harry  West.  I  am  going  away,  partly,  to 
get  over  you — if  I  can.  Love  is  a  fire.  Feed  it,  and 
it  grows.  Let  it  alone,  and  it  dies.  Confessor,  there 
is  a  certain  girl — one  Barbara  Ferris.  I  love  her  with 
all  my  heart  and  soul  and  have  so  done  for  many 
years.  Since  this  leads  to  happiness  for  neither  of 
us,  I  am  going  to  cut  her  out  of  my  life." 

"Wilmot!  Are  you  speaking  seriously?  You're 
not  going  to  write  to  me?  I'll  have  no  news  of  you? 
Not  know  how  you  are  getting  on?  Not  know  if  you 
are  sick  or  well?  " 

"The  first  night,"  said  Wilmot,  "you  cried.  The 
second  you  slept  and  thought  about  work." 

"  But  you  are  my  oldest  friend  and  my  best.  What- 
ever we  are  to  each  other,  we  are  that — best  friends. 
We  have  our  roots  so  deep  in  the  happenings  of  years 
and  years  that  we  can't  be  moved — and  get  away 
with  it." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Wilmot  almost  solemnly.  "It 
isn't  going  to  be  easy  for  me,  either.  But  time  will 
soon  show.  If  after  a  year  we  find  that  we  cannot 
do  without  each  other's  friendship — why,  then  we 
must  see  each  other  again.  That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"At  least  you'll  write?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"But  I  will." 

"No,  Barbs.  The  sight  of  your  writing  would  be 
too  much  fuel  for  the  fire." 

She  was  silent  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  She  did  not 
enjoy  the  idea  of  being  deliberately  cut  out  of  Wilmot 


184  THE  PENALTY 

Allen's  life  and  heart.  "Suppose,"  she  said,  "that  at 
the  end  of  the  year  the  fire  is  still  burning  bright?" 

He  slowed  the  car  down  so  that  he  could  turn  and 
look  at  her.  His  face  looked  very  strong  and  stern. 
"In  that  case,"  he  said,  "I  will  come  back  and  marry 
you." 

"And  supposing  that  meanwhile,  in  a  fit  of  loneli- 
ness and  mistaken  zeal,  I  shall  have  married  some  one 
else?" 

"If  I  feel  about  you  as  I  do  now,"  said  Allen,  "I 
will  take  you  away  from  him." 

Once  more  the  car  began  to  run  swiftly,  so  swiftly 
that  Wilmot  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  the  road  to 
look  at  Barbara's  face.  If  he  had,  he  would  have 
seen  in  her  eyes  an  extraordinary  look  of  trouble  and 
tenderness. 


XXI 

DURING  the  week-end  Barbara  and  Allen  were  much 
together,  to  the  amusement  of  the  other  guests,  who 
said:  "It's  on  again."  But  it  was  not  really. 

If  Wilmot  was  going  away,  Barbara  wished  him  to 
have  good  memories  of  last  times  together  to  carry 
with  him.  And  Wilmot,  like  a  foolish  fellow  who  is 
going  to  swear  off  Monday,  and  in  the  meanwhile 
drinks  to  excess,  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  dress 
his  wounds  in  the  present,  since,  in  time  to  save  his 
life,  he  was  going  to  give  them  every  attention  pos- 
sible. That  he  was  going  to  "get  over"  Barbara  in 
a  year  he  did  not  believe.  But  observation  and  com- 
mon-sense told  him  that  life  without  her  must  become 
easier  and  saner  as  time  passed,  and  that  to  be  for- 
ever caught  up  or  thrown  down  by  her  varying  moods 
toward  him  had  ceased  to  be  a  self-respecting  way  of 
life.  This  is  what  common-sense  and  experience  told 
him;  but  his  heart  told  him  that  he  would  love  her 
always,  and  that  if  he  could  not  have  her  he  must 
simply  die. 

Sunday  night,  after  she  had  gone  to  bed,  Barbara 
lay  in  the  darkness  and  asked  herself  questions. 
Wilmot's  life  had  not  been  fine,  but  his  love  had  been 
very  fine,  and  for  longer  than  she  could  remember. 
Would  it  not  be  well  to  trust  herself  to  such  a  love  as 

185 


186  THE  PENALTY 

that?  Had  she  the  right  to  send  it  away  begging? 
Would  it  not  be  better,  since  marriage  is  a  lottery,  to 
grasp  some  things  that  in  this  case  would  be  sure,  in- 
stead of  leaving  everything  to  chance?  If  he  kept 
away  from  her  long  enough,  his  love  would  probably 
die,  or  at  least  reduce  itself  to  a  state  of  occasional 
melancholy  agitation.  But  if  she  belonged  to  him  it 
would  never  die.  Of  this  their  whole  past  seemed  a 
sure  proof.  If  she  married  him  he  would  always  love 
her  and  be  faithful  to  her;  for  her  part  she  was  won- 
derfully fond  of  him,  and  she  believed  that  if  she  once 
actually  committed  herself  to  his  care,  she  would  be 
a  good  wife  to  him,  and  a  loving.  Then  why  not? 
She  tried  the  effect  of  pretending  that  she  had  prom- 
ised to  marry  him  and  meant  to  keep  her  word,  and 
she  found  that  the  position,  if  only  mentally,  was 
strategically  strong  and  secure.  She  would  make  him 
happy;  she  herself  would  cease  from  troubling  him 
and  other  men.  For  her  sake  he  would  turn  over 
new  leaves  and  be  everything  that  was  fine.  She 
would  be  obedient  and  have  no  more  difficult  knots 
to  untangle  for  herself.  Wilmot  would  simply  cut 
them  for  her  with  a  sure  word,  one  way  or  the  other. 

She  had  not  for  a  long  time  enjoyed  so  peaceful  a 
night.  Hours  passed,  and  she  found  that,  without 
sleeping,  she  was  becoming  wonderfully  rested.  For 
it  is  true  that  nothing  so  rests  the  thinker  as  unselfish 
thinking. 

She  had  breakfast  in  her  room,  but  was  down  in 
time  to  catch  the  business  men's  train  for  town,  or 


THE  PENALTY  187 

to  be  driven  in  Wilmot's  borrowed  runabout,  if  he 
should  ask  her.  He  did,  and  amid  shouts  of  fare- 
well and  invitations  to  come  again  soon,  they  drove 
away  together  into  the  cool  bright  morning. 

"Wilmot,"  Barbara  said,  when  they  had  passed 
the  last  outpost  of  the  Bruces'  shrubbery  and  whirled 
into  the  turnpike,  "I  spent  most  of  last  night  think- 
ing." 

"You  look  fresh  as  a  rosebud." 

She  shook  her  head  as  if  to  shake  off  the  dew,  and 
said:  "I  feel  more  rested  than  if  I  had  slept  soundly. 
If  you  will  marry  me,  Wilmot,  I  will  make  you  a  good 
wife." 

Wilmot's  heart  leaped  into  his  throat  with  joy,  and 
then  dropped  as  if  into  a  deep  abyss  of  doubt.  For 
all  her  confessions  to  him,  and  for  all  her  promises  of 
amendment,  here  was  his  darling  Barbs  unable  to 
resist  the  temptation  of  hurting  him  again.  "One 
of  her  impulses,"  he  thought,  and  at  once  he  was 
angry  with  her,  and  his  heart  yearned  over  her. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  able  to  say  that,  Barbs,"  he 
said  gently,  "a  year  from  now,  after  we've  been  out 
of  sight  and  hearing  of  each  other  all  that  time?" 

"Wilmot,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  up  to  my  old  bad 
tricks.  I  am  ready  to  give  you  my  word  this  time, 
and  to  keep  faith.  Only  I'd  like  everything  to  be 
done  as  soon  as  possible.  I've  been  a  very  foolish 
girl,  and  perplexed  and  tired,  and  I  want  to  lean  on 
you,  if  you'll  let  me.  We'll  have  a  good  life  together, 
and  I  will  keep  my  eyes  in  the  boat." 


i88  THE  PENALTY 

"A  few  days  ago,  Barbs,"  he  said,  "you  thought 
that  you  were  seriously  in  love  with  another  man." 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "but  I  wasn't." 

"Are  you  in  love  with  me  now?"  he  asked  wist- 
fully. 

"I  know  that  you  will  always  be  good  to  me,  and 
love  me.  And  that  is  what  I  know  that  I  want." 

"Poor  little  Barbs,"  he  said. 

"It  seems  to  me  rather,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  now 
rich  with  chances  of  happiness  for  us  both.  I  want 
to  make  my  oldest  and  most  deserving  friend  happy, 
and  I  trust  him  to  make  me  happy." 

"It  isn't  love,  dear?" 

"It's  so  much  affection  and  friendship  that  per- 
haps it's  better."  She  turned  her  face  away  a  little. 
"The  best  that  marriage  can  end  hi  is  affectionate 
companionship;  why  not  begin  with  that,  and  so  be 
sure  of  it  for  always?" 

"If  I  had  ever  dreamed,"  said  Wilmot  unsteadily, 
"that  you  were  going  to  say  things  like  this  to  me, 
I'd  have  dreamed  that  I  went  wild  with  happiness, 
and  drove  you  to  the  nearest  clergyman.  But  now 
that  you  have  actually  said  what  you  have  said,  in 
real  life,  I  find  that  I  love  you  more  than  ever,  and 
that  it  is  not  compatible  with  so  much  love  to  take 
you  on  a  basis  of  friendship.  You  feel  that  you  have 
hurt  me  more  than  is  possible  for  your  conscience  to 
bear,  and  you  wish  to  make  up  for  it.  Is  that  right?  " 

"That's  not  all  there  is  to  it,  Wilmot,  by  any 
means.  But  for  heaven's  sake  believe  that  I'm 


THE  PENALTY  189 

being  altogether  unselfish :  but  you  know  me  too  well 
to  believe  anything  so  ridiculous." 

"I  know  you  well  enough,"  said  Wilmot,  "to  wor- 
ship the  ground  you  walk  on.  Not  because  my  heart 
urges  me,  but  my  understanding.  And  I  know  you 
would  play  the  game,  once  you  had  given  your  word, 
and  make  me  a  splendid  wife.  But  what  I  have  for 
you  cannot  be  given  to  mere  friendship  and  submis- 
sion. I  should  feel  that  I  had  sinned  against  my  love 
for  you  too  greatly  to  be  forgiven.  You  are  closer  to 
me  than  you  have  ever  been,  my  dear — and  yet  so 
far  away  that  I  can  only  look  upward  as  to  a  star, 
and  despair  of  the  distance.  If  there  has  been  any- 
thing fine  in  my  life,  it  has  been  my  love  for  you. 
And  behold,  you,  with  every  opposite  intention,  are 
tempting  me  to  let  that  go  rotten,  too.  But,  0  my 
Barbs,  if  you  could  only  love  me!" 

Barbara  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  thought  I  was 
doing  right." 

"You  have  done  right.    It  is  for  me  to  do  right." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I'm  bitterly  disappointed,  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  it.  Ought  I  to  thank  you  for 
letting  me  off?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Then  I  thank  you." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  long  time.  At  last  Barbara  said : 

"When  do  you  go  West?" 

"In  a  very  few  days." 

"Then  you  will  be  able  to  go  to  Mr,  Blizzard's 
party  and  hear  him  play." 


THE  PENALTY 

"Are  you  still  determined  on  that?" 

"Why,  yes.  It  will  be  fun.  And  besides,  I  haven't 
any  husband  to  forbid  me." 

Wilmot's  temper  rose  a  little.  "I'll  go,"  he  said 
shortly.  "When  will  the  bust  be  finished?  And  the 
whole  Blizzard  episode?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara  patiently. 
"But  I  think  the  Blizzard  episode — as  you  call  it — 
is  rather  a  permanent  friendship.  I  find  reasons  to 
like  him,  and  to  admire  him." 

Wilmot  made  no  comment.  He  longed  to  speak 
evil  of  Blizzard,  but  the  fact  of  his  financial  obliga- 
tion to  the  man  kept  him  silent.  He  contented  him- 
self with  saying:  "I'm  glad  that  I  haven't  your  artis- 
tic judgment  of  character.  One  of  these  days  you 
will  learn,  to  your  cost,  that  men's  judgment  of  a 
man  is  usually  correct." 

"I  wish  he  had  legs,"  said  Barbara.  "I'd  like  to 
do  Prometheus  bound  to  the  rock." 

Wilmot's  disgust  was  intense.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say — "  he  began,  and  then  checked  himself.  "Why 
not  have  your  father  graft  a  pair  on  him?  He's  suc- 
ceeded, by  all  accounts,  in  doing  so  for  all  sorts  of 
beasts." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Barbara  sweetly,  "that  is 
just  what  my  father  would  try  to  do  for  Mr.  Blizzard 
if  some  interested  person  would  only  step  forward  and 
supply  the  legs." 

"I  dare  say  Blizzard  would  find  a  pair  quickly 
enough,  if  he  thought  they  could  be  attached." 


THE  PENALTY  191 

"But  how  could  he?" 

"Oh,  I'm  just  joking,  Miss  Innocence.  But,  seri- 
ously, he  could  buy  a  pair  for  a  price.  You  can  buy 
anything  hi  this  world — except  love." 

Blizzard,  sitting  in  the  sun  on  the  steps  of  17  Mc- 
Burney  Place,  watched  the  pair  approaching  in  the 
runabout,  noted  as  they  drew  near  the  affectionate 
seriousness  of  their  attitude  toward  each  other — for 
they  had  stopped  talking  of  him  and  returned  to 
themselves — and  his  whole  being  burned  suddenly 
with  a  rage  of  jealousy.  Controlling  the  expression 
of  his  face,  he  rose  upon  his  crutches  and  descended 
the  steps  to  greet  Barbara  at  the  curb. 

"Glad  to  see  you!"  said  she.  "And  how  about 
Wednesday  night  for  the  party?  Mr.  Allen  is  coming, 
and  I  have  asked  three  or  four  other  people." 

The  legless  man  bowed  and  said:  "Thank  you. 
Wednesday  at  half -past  nine." 

He  nodded  affably  to  Allen,  who  returned  the  salute 
with  all  his  charming  ease  and  courtesy.  You  might 
have  mistaken  them  for  two  men  who  really  valued 
each  other. 

"Miss  Ferris,"  said  Blizzard,  "I  shall  be  ready  for 
work  as  soon  as  you.  I  wish  to  ask  Mr.  Allen  a 
question." 

Wilmot  winced,  since  he  noted  a  tone  of  com- 
mand in  Blizzard's  voice,  and  it  jarred  on  him, 
and  he  said  good-by  to  Barbara  and  watched 
her  disappear  into  the  studio-building  with  a  feel- 
ing of  strong  resentment  against  the  man  who  had 


I92  THE  PENALTY 

to  all  intents  and  purposes  dismissed  her  from  the 
scene. 

"Well?"  he  said  curtly. 

But  Blizzard,  enjoying  the  childish  satisfaction  of 
having  separated  the  pair,  was  no  longer  in  the  mood 
to  take  offence.  "I  wish  to  make  a  proposition  to 
you,"  he  said,  "but  at  some  length.  Will  you  come 
to  my  place  at  three  o'clock  this  afternoon?  It  is 
easier  for  you  to  get  about  than  for  me." 

"I  am  very  busy,"  said  Wilmot;  "I  am  getting 
ready  to  go  West." 

"So  I  have  gathered.  Have  you  anything  definite 
in  view?" 

"Not  very,"  said  Wilmot.  "Nor  any  money  to 
put  it  through  with.  About  the  loan  you  were  so 
kind  as  to  make  me,  I  can  only  say  that  I  am  going 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  to  work  very  hard  at 
something  or  other.  If  I  have  any  luck  you  shall  be 
paid." 

The  legless  man  dismissed  the  matter  of  the  loan 
with  a  backward  toss  of  his  head.  "If  you've  noth- 
ing definite  in  view,"  said  he,  "please  come  at  three 
o'clock.  I  have  interests  in  the  West — legitimate  in- 
terests, and  influence.  Perhaps  I  can  put  you  in  a 
way  to  clear  up  your  debts." 

"Well,  by  George,"  said  Wilmot,  his  good  nature 
returning,  "if  that's  the  idea,  I'll  turn  up  at  three 
sharp.  Sure  thing." 


XXII 

BLIZZARD  had  upon  his  desk  a  specimen  of  the  straw 
hats  which  the  young  ladies  of  his  establishment  were 
kept  so  busy  plaiting.  At  exactly  three  o'clock  he 
thrust  it  to  one  side,  and  at  exactly  the  same  moment 
the  bell  of  his  street  door  clanged,  and  Wilmot  Allen 
came  in  out  of  the  sunlight. 

"On  time,"  said  Blizzard,  "thank  you.  Are  you 
a  judge  of  hats?  Try  that  one." 

Obediently  Wilmot  removed  his  own  heavy  yellow- 
ish straw,  and  substituted  the  soft  and  pliant  article 
indicated.  It  fitted  him  to  perfection,  and  the  leg- 
less man  smiled. 

"It's  yours,"  he  said;  "fold  it  up,  and  put  it  in 
your  pocket." 

"It'll  break  it." 

"Here.  Let  me  show  you."  And  Blizzard  folded 
the  hat  as  if  it  had  been  a  linen  handkerchief.  "Very 
handy  thing,"  he  said,  "and  only  to  be  obtained  as  a 
gift.  Sit  down."  Wilmot  thrust  the  hat  into  his 
inside  pocket  and  sat  down  on  the  beggar's  left,  fac- 
ing the  light.  The  faint  hum  of  girls  talking  at  their 
work  came  from  the  back  of  the  establishment.  A 
whirling  fan  buzzed  and  bumped.  The  weather  had 
turned  very  hot. 

"Young  man,"  the  beggar  began  abruptly,  "if  I 
193 


i94  THE  PENALTY 

had  your  legs  I'd  engage  in  something  more  active 
and  adventurous  than  the  manufacture  of  straw  hats. 
Have  you  ever  had  the  wish  to  be  a  soldier  of  fortune? 
To  go  about  the  world  redressing  wrong,  righting  upon 
the  side  of  the  oppressed?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Wilmot  simply. 

"You  are  heavily  in  debt?" 

"Very." 

"Whatever  I  may  say  to  you  will  go  no  further?" 

"No  further." 

The  legless  man  stroked  his  chin  strongly  with  his 
thick  fingers.  "I  am  engineering  a  little  revolution," 
he  said.  "My  own  morals  are  negligible.  Any  revo- 
lution that  offered  a  profit  would  look  good  to  me. 
But  in  this  case  the  revolutionary  party  is  oppressed, 
down-trodden,  robbed,  starved,  and  murdered  by  con- 
ditions created  by  the  party  in  power.  I  am  not  yet 
at  liberty  to  name  you  the  part  of  the  world  in  which 
this  state  of  affairs  exists,  that  will  be  for  later. 
Meanwhile,  if  my  proposition  interests  you,  will  you 
take  my  word  for  the  place  and  for  the  abuse  of 
power?  Indeed,  the  latter  smells  to  heaven." 

"South  America,"  said  Wilmot,  "is  full  of  just  such 
rottenness  as  you  describe.  I  suppose  you're  speak- 
ing of  some  South  American  republic?" 

"Maybe  I  am,"  said  Blizzard,  "and  maybe  I'm 
not.  That  will  be  for  later — for  January  i5th.  On 
that  date  my  soldiers  of  fortune  will  be  gathered  in 
New  York  and  told  their  destiny.  I  am  hoping  that 
you  will  be  one  of  the  leaders." 


THE  PENALTY  195 

"I  know  nothing  of  soldiering." 

"Your  record  proves  that  you  are  a  great  hand 
with  a  rifle.  It  stands  to  reason  that  you  can  teach 
the  trick  to  others." 

"Possibly,"  said  Wilmot,  "to  a  certain  extent." 

"I  have,"  said  Blizzard,  "a  number  of  scattered 
mining  interests  in  Utah.  I  wish  you  to  travel  among 
them  teaching  the  men  in  relays  to  shoot  accurately 
and  fast.  This  can  be  done  without  greatly  inter- 
fering with  the  working  of  the  mines.  You  would 
be  nominally  under  the  command  of  a  man  named 
O'Hagan,  to  whom  I  have  written  a  letter  introduc- 
ing you,  on  the  chance  that  you  might  care  to  use  it." 

"Where,"  said  Wilmot  smiling,  "does  the  business 
end  of  the  affair  begin?  I'm  rotten  with  debts." 

"For  teaching  my  men  to  shoot,"  said  Blizzard, 
"I  will  pay  you  the  money  that  you  owe  me.  That's 
one  debt  written  off." 

"And  how  shall  I  live  in  the  meanwhile?" 

"I  have  empowered  O'Hagan  to  pay  you  five  hun- 
dred dollars  a  month." 

"And  the  rest  of  my  debts?    How  about  them?" 

"You  will  fight  for  down-trodden  people,"  said 
Blizzard  gravely.  "If  you  win,  you  will  find  them 
grateful — possibly  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice.  In 
the  republic  of  which  we  are  speaking  there  is  wealth 
enough  for  all.  It  is  one  of  the  richest  little  corners 
of  God's  footstool — gold,  diamonds,  silver.  If  you 
succeed  you  will  be  on  Easy  Street.  If  you  fail,  you 
will  very  likely  get  a  bullet  through  your  head." 


xg6  THE  PENALTY 

Wilmot's  face  brightened.  "If  I  got  killed  trying 
to  pay  'em,"  said  he,  "my  creditors  couldn't  feel  very 
nasty  toward  me,  could  they?" 

A  look  of  strong  admiration  came  into  Blizzard's 
hard  eyes.  "I  like  the  way  your  mind  works,"  said 
he.  "If  you  get  killed  in  my  service,  I'll  pay  your 
debts  myself." 

"I  owe  nearly  a  hundred  thousand,"  said  Wilmot. 

"I've  been  worse  stung,"  said  Blizzard. 

"Where  the  devil  do  you  get  all  your  money,  Bliz- 
zard?" 

"I've  lived  for  money  and  power.  I've  been  lucky, 
clever — and  unscrupulous." 

"I  like  your  frankness.  But  you  are  not  letting 
me  in  for  anything  rotten?" 

11  Your  Revolutionary  ancestors  fought  against  just 
such  forces  as  you  are  to  fight  against — unjust  taxa- 
tion, abuse  of  power,  and  corruption  in  high  places. 
Are  you  going  to  serve?  " 

"I'm  going  it  pretty  blind,  but  I  think  so.  I  like 
the  idea  of  fighting.  I  like  the  idea  of  paying  my 
debts.  And  at  times  I  think  a  bullet  in  the  head 
would  be  a  matter  for  self-congratulation." 

"That,"  said  Blizzard,  "is  the  feeling  of  two  classes 
of  young  men — those  who  are  tangled  up  with  women 
and  those  who  aren't." 

Wilmot  laughed,  though  the  legless  man's  words 
brought  the  ache  into  his  heart. 

"You  will  return  to  New  York,"  Blizzard  went  on, 
"during  the  first  half  of  January." 


THE  PENALTY  197 

"I  had  rather  promised  myself  to  keep  out  of  New 
York  for  a  year." 

"It  will  be  for  only  a  few  days.  If  you  don't  wish 
your  presence  in  the  city  known,  I'll  put  you  up  in 
my  house.  Parts  of  it  are  as  secret  as  the  grave." 

"All  right.  But  supposing  the  revolution  falls 
through  before  it  ever  gets  started?  " 

"I'll  make  you  a  bet,"  said  Blizzard,  smiling. 
"Please  reach  me  that  black  check-book."  He  wrote 
a  check,  blotted  it,  and  showed  it  to  Wilmot.  "This," 
he  said,  "against  a  penny!  It  will  pay  your  debts. 
It's  payable  at  the  City  Bank  on  January  i6th.  Put 
it  in  your  pocket." 

"When  do  I  start  for  Utah?" 

"Wednesday  afternoon." 

"I  hoped  to  come  to  your  concert  that  night." 

Blizzard  shook  his  head.  "You  will  hear  better 
music,"  he  said,  "in  the  West — rifles  on  the  ranges. 
And  by  the  way,  don't  lose  that  hat  I  gave  you.  It 
must  be  where  you  can  get  it  on  the  1 5th  of  January." 

To  Wilmot  a  straw  hat  suggested  the  palm-groves 
of  a  South  American  republic  rather  than  the  streets 
of  New  York  in  midwinter,  and  he  said  so;  but  the 
legless  man  only  smiled. 


XXIII 

DURING  those  last  days  Barbara  and  Wilmot  were  to- 
gether a  great  deal.  Tuesday  morning,  by  invitation, 
he  watched  her  at  work  upon  her  bust  of  Blizzard; 
afterward  he  took  her  to  lunch  and  for  a  long  drive 
through  Westchester  County.  That  night  they  dined 
with  Mr.  Ferris,  who,  immediately  after  dinner,  ex- 
cused himself,  and  withdrew  to  his  laboratory. 
Wednesday  morning  Barbara  did  no  work,  but  drove 
about  in  a  taxicab  with  Wilmot  and  helped  him  shop. 
They  lunched  together,  and  she  went  to  the  Grand 
Central  to  see  him  off.  Where  Wilmot  found  the  time 
to  pack  the  things  which  they  had  bought  in  the 
morning  was  always  something  of  a  mystery  to  them 
both. 

As  train-time  approached  the  hearts  of  both  these 
young  people  began  to  beat  very  fast.  Each  felt  that 
the  good-bys  presently  to  be  said  might  be  forever. 
In  his  resolution  not  even  to  write  to  Barbara,  Wilmot 
was  weakening  pitiably.  He  wished  that  he  had  taken 
her  at  her  word  and  married  her  Monday  when  she  was 
in  the  mood.  Better  Barbara  unloving,  he  thought, 
than  this  terrible  emptiness  and  aching.  His  heart 
was  proving  stronger  than  his  mind.  Short,  more  or 
less  conventional  phrases  were  torn  from  him.  Bar- 

198 


THE  PENALTY  199 

bara,  her  heart  beating  faster  and  faster,  said  very 
little. 

The  attention  of  her  wonderful  eyes  was  divided 
between  the  crowds  and  the  station  clock.  She  could 
see  the  minute-hand  move.  Once  in  a  while  she 
snatched,  as  it  were,  a  look  at  Wilmot.  His  eyes  were 
never  lifted  from  her  face. 

The  gate  for  Wilmot' s  train  was  suddenly  slid  wide 
open  with  a  horrid,  rasping  noise,  and  people  began 
to  press  upon  the  man  who  examined  the  tickets.  It 
was  then  that  Barbara's  roving  and  troubled  eyes 
came  to  rest,  you  may  say,  hi  Wilmot's,  with  a  look 
so  sweet,  so  confiding,  so  trusting,  that  it  seemed  to 
the  young  man  that  the  pain  of  separation  was  going 
to  be  greater  than  he  could  bear.  He  lifted  his  hands 
as  if  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  stood  there  like  a 
study  in  arrested  motion. 

"Best  friend  in  the  world,"  she  said,  the  great  eyes 
still  in  his,  "most  charming  companion  in  the  world 
— man  I've  hurt  so  much  and  so  often — only  say  the 
word." 

"What  word?  That  I  love  you — love  you — love 
you?" 

They  spoke  in  whispers. 

"Stay  with  me,"  she  said,  "and  for  me — or  take 
me  with  you.  I  can't  bear  this.  I  can't  bear  it." 

"You'd  come — now — just  as  you  are?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  love  me?" 

Slowly,  like  two  things  in  anguish,  her  eyes  turned 


200  THE  PENALTY 

from  their  steady  gazing  into  his.  And,  "I  dare  not 
say  it,"  she  said,  "but  I  will  go  with  you — and  try." 

They  were  aware  of  something  pressing  toward 
them,  and  turning  with  a  common  resentment  against 
interruption,  they  found  themselves  looking  down 
upon  the  legless  man. 

"Just  dropped  in  to  say  good-by  and  wish  you 
good  luck,"  he  said.  His  face  wore  a  good-natured 
smile,  and,  quite  innocent  of  self-consciousness, 
brought  confusion  upon  their  last  moments  together. 
The  tentacles  of  unreasoning  passion  that  each  had 
been  putting  forth  were  beaten  down  by  it  and  aside. 

"Better  get  a  move  on — time's  up." 

"  Good-by,  Wilmot,"  said  Barbara  swiftly.  "  Every- 
thing's all  right.  Good  luck  to  you  and  God  bless 
you." 

She  turned,  her  lovely  head  drooping,  and  walked 
swiftly  away. 

A  young  man  took  off  his  hat  and  held  it  in  his 
hands  until  she  had  passed.  He  had  been  watching 
her  and  Wilmot,  and  incidentally  the  legless  man,  for 
the  last  ten  minutes.  He  hoped  that  she  would  look 
up  and  speak  to  him,  but  her  mind  was  given  singly 
to  sorrow.  And  she  went  through  the  station  to  the 
street  without  knowing  if  it  was  crowded  or  deserted. 
Harry  West's  sad  eyes  followed  her  until  she  was  out 
of  sight.  Then  with  a  sort  of  wrench  he  turned  once 
more  to  observe  the  actions  of  the  legless  man.  This 
one,  however,  having  said  cheerful  good-bys  to  the 
sulky  and  heartsick  Wilmot,  and  having  at  the  same 


THE  PENALTY  201 

time  noted  the  obtrusive  nearness  of  the  secret-service 
agent,  had  made  swift  use  of  his  crutches  and  stumps 
and  was  at  the  moment  climbing  into  a  waiting 
taxicab. 

Whatever  West's  opinion  may  have  been,  Blizzard 
was  making  a  sufficiently  innocent  disposition  of  time. 
He  had  prevented  an  elopement,  perhaps.  And  he 
was  on  his  way  to  a  prominent  florist  to  fill  his  cab 
with  flowers  for  the  evening's  entertainment. 

He  was  in  a  curiously  shy  and  nervous  state  of 
mind.  There  was  perhaps  no  man  living  whose  hands 
were  more  nearly  at  home  upon  the  key-board  of  a 
piano,  or  whose  mind  was  more  disdainful  of  other 
people's  opinions.  But  of  the  fact  that  he  was  suf- 
fering from  incipient  stage  fright  there  could  be  no 
doubt  whatever.  Would  this  inoculate  his  playing, 
keep  the  soul  out  of  it?  Or  worse,  would  it  cause 
him  to  strike  wrong  notes,  and  even  to  forget  whole 
passages,  so  that  his  guests,  and  of  course  Barbara, 
would  go  away  in  the  impression  that  they  had  heard 
a  boastful  person  make  an  ass  of  himself?  He  was 
almost  minded  to  begin  his  concert  with  an  imitation 
of  a  virtuoso  suffering  from  stage  fright.  If  there 
was  going  to  be  laughter,  let  it  be  thought  that  he 
was  not  the  irresponsible  cause  of  it,  but  the  deliber- 
ate and  responsible.  What  should  he  play?  Violent 
things  to  get  his  hands  in  and  his  courage  up,  and  then 
Chopin?  Let  Chopin  speak  up  on  his  behalf  to  Bar- 
bara; tell  her  how  he  had  suffered;  how  you  must 
not  judge  him  until  you  understood  the  suffering; 


202  THE  PENALTY 

how  there  was  still  in  him  a  soul  that  looked  up  from 
the  depths,  and  aspired  to  beautiful  things?    Yes, 
let  Chopin  speak  to  her,  plead  with  her,  reason  with 
her,  show  her,  lead  her. 
He  descended  from  the  cab,  and  entered  the  florist's. 


XXIV 

BARBARA  paid  Blizzard  the  compliment  of  inviting 
only  people  who  were  really  fond  of  music  to  hear 
him  play.  The  Bruces,  Adrian  Savage,  Blythe  the 
architect,  young  Morton  Haddon,  and  Barbara  her- 
self, composed  the  party.  They  dined  on  a  roof,  and 
then,  occupying  two  taxicabs,  started  for  Marrow 
Lane  in  the  highest  spirits.  But  the  East  Side  had 
its  way  with  them,  and  they  reached  their  destina- 
tion in  a  serious  mood,  ashamed,  perhaps,  of  being 
rich  and  fortunate,  unhappy  at  feeling  themselves 
envied  and  hated.  Bruce,  Adrian  Savage,  and  Bar- 
bara were  in  the  leading  cab,  a  brand-new  one  smell- 
ing of  leather,  and  of  the  gardenia  which  Barbara  was 
wearing.  The  filth  of  the  East  Side  came  no  nearer 
to  them  than  the  tires  of  the  cab.  They  were,  you 
may  say,  insulated,  enfortressed  against  squalor,  pov- 
erty, crime,  and  discontent.  They  were  almost  free 
to  do  as  they  pleased,  as  indeed  their  expedition 
proved,  and  yet,  such  is  the  natural  charity  of  the 
human  heart,  they  could  not  look  from  the  windows 
of  the  cab  and  remain  untroubled,  or  fail  to  under- 
stand a  little  of  those  motives  which  turn  the  minds 
of  the  unfortunate  to  thoughts  of  anarchy.  There 
was  no  whole  tragedy  unrolled  before  their  eyes,  not 
even  a  completed  episode  in  one.  It  so  happened 

203 


204  THE  PENALTY 

that  they  saw  no  one  in  tears  or  in  liquor;  on  the 
contrary,  they  saw  many  who  laughed,  many  chil- 
dren playing  games  with  and  tricks  upon  one  another. 
Yet  in  its  mirth  the  region  was  mirthless;  its  energy 
was  not  physical,  but  nervous.  It  had  an  air  of 
living  intensely  in  the  present,  for  fear  of  remember- 
ing, for  fear  of  looking  ahead.  And  it  needed  but  a 
misunderstanding  or  a  catchword  to  turn  in  a  moment 
from  recreation  to  violence.  Indeed,  the  mere  fact 
of  their  own  passing  in  the  highly  polished  cab  with 
its  wake  of  burned  gas  and  Havana  tobacco  turned 
many  a  smile  into  a  scowl  or  a  jeer. 

Often  the  driver  throttled  his  car  to  a  snail's  pace 
or  brought  it  to  a  full  stop  to  avoid  running  over  one 
of  those  children  who,  so  far  as  self-preservation  goes, 
appear  to  be  deaf,  dumb,  blind,  and  without  powers 
of  locomotion;  and  during  one  of  these  halts  a  little 
girl,  walking  slowly  backward,  her  eyes  upon  another 
little  girl  who  for  no  apparent  cause  was  making  a 
series  of  malevolent  faces  at  her,  collided  with  one  of 
the  tires  and  fell  on  her  back  directly  in  front  of  the 
stationary  car.  Instantly  she  began  to  screech,  and 
the  street,  hitherto  but  scatteringly  occupied,  filled 
with  raging  people. 

The  driver  from  his  seat,  Bruce  from  one  window, 
Savage  from  the  other,  attempted  to  explain  to  deaf 
ears.  Their  voices  were  drowned  in  a  torrent  of 
abuse. 

Barbara,  at  first  only  exasperated  by  the  stupidity 
of  the  crowd,  sitting  very  still  and  erect,  had  upon 


THE  PENALTY  205 

her  face  that  expression  of  bored  contempt  with  which 
aristocrats  in  the  French  Revolution  are  said  to  have 
gone  to  the  guillotine.  Then  that  was  shouted  in  her 
ear  which,  though  but  half  understood,  turned  her 
scarlet  with  anger.  Unfortunately  Savage,  hitherto 
patiently  self-controlled,  had  heard  the  compounded 
epithet  hurled  at  Barbara,  and  in  a  moment  his  fight- 
ing blood  was  beyond  control,  and  he  was  out  of  the 
cab  raining  heavy  blows  upon  a  bloated  chalky-white 
face,  and  receiving  worse  than  he  gave  from  a  dozen 
fists  and  feet.  Strong  as  a  bull,  always  in  training,  his 
strength  was  beaten  and  kicked  from  him  in  twenty 
seconds,  and  with  Bruce  and  the  driver — who,  bravely 
enough,  if  reluctantly,  had  leaped  to  his  assistance — 
things  were  no  better. 

A  whistling,  shrill  and  metallic,  brought  the  fight 
to  a  sudden  end.  The  crowd  drew  back  sullen  and 
reluctant,  no  longer  shouting  and  cursing,  but  mutter- 
ing, explaining,  and  discreet. 

Barbara  took  from  her  lips  the  whistle  which  Kid 
Shannon  had  given  her.  She  was  very  white,  but 
her  eyes  blazed  with  the  light  of  success  and  power. 
The  bringing  of  the  whistle  had  been  an  accident,  the 
blowing  it  an  act  of  desperation;  but  perceiving  the 
sudden  effect  of  that  blowing  she  could  not  but  feel 
that  she  had  done  something  strategically  good  and 
in  the  nick  of  time.  Savage  began  to  straighten  his 
collar  and  necktie,  Bruce  to  nurse  a  sprained  thumb. 
The  second  cab  came  up.  Blythe  and  Morton  Had- 
don  got  out  and,  full  of  perplexity  but  not  unamused, 


206  THE  PENALTY 

fell  to  asking  questions  of  their  dishevelled  friends. 
These,  winded  and  bruised,  could  give  but  an  ejacu- 
latory  explanation,  mostly  of  what  they  would  do  to 
such  and  such  a  one  if  they  could  isolate  him  from 
his  fellow  cutthroats  for  five  minutes;  and  Ely  the 
and  Haddon,  not  bruised  and  winded,  told  them  to 
pull  themselves  together.  Meanwhile  the  crowd  had 
disintegrated  before  the  possible  arrival  of  Kid  Shan- 
non; had  vanished  like  a  lump  of  sugar  in  a  cup  of 
tea.  Even  the  little  child  who  had  been  the  cause 
of  the  uproar  had  disappeared.  So  a  colony  of  prairie- 
dogs  vanishes  into  its  burrows  at  the  shadow  of  a 
hawk. 

The  short  street  was  deserted  save  for  the  figure  of 
a  rapidly  approaching  policeman.  Why  this  guardian 
of  the  peace  had  not  been  upon  his  beat  during  the 
fracas  could  have  been  best  explained  perhaps  by  the 
proprietor  of  a  disorderly  house,  from  whom  at  the 
time  he  had  been  levying  a  weekly  stipend  of  lust 
money  and  a  glass  of  beer.  For  his  lapse  of  duty, 
however,  he  made  such  amends  as  were  possible.  In 
short,  he  took  the  numbers  of  both  taxicabs,  the 
names  of  their  occupants,  and  told  them,  with  stern 
condescension,  that  they  were  now  at  liberty  to  pur- 
sue their  interrupted  way. 

But  first  Barbara  received  praise  for  having  blown 
the  whistle,  and  Bruce  and  Savage  were  made  to  say 
repeatedly  that  they  insisted  on  going  on  with  the 
evening's  entertainment;  that  they  were  not  really 
hurt,  and  that  they  wouldn't  think  of  being  driven 


THE  PENALTY  207 

to  a  doctor.  Everybody  wanted  to  know  more  about 
Kid  Shannon,  and  in  just  what  consisted  the  terror 
and  efficacy  of  his  name.  But  Barbara  could  only  say 
that  he  was  a  friend  of  hers,  and  a  sort  of  henchman  of 
their  host  for  the  evening.  Then  she  said,  smiling: 

"I'm  sorry  he  didn't  come  himself,  but  anyway  his 
whistle  is  a  perfectly  good  whistle,  and  another  time 
I'll  know  enough  to  blow  it  before  anybody  gets  hurt." 

Mrs.  Bruce  insisted  on  having  her  husband  ride 
with  her,  so  Blythe  took  his  place  in  Barbara's  cab, 
and  they  reached  Marrow  Lane  without  further  mo- 
lestation. Indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  rumor  had  gone 
ahead  of  them,  saying  that  they  were  not  as  other 
swells,  but  East-Siders  in  disguise,  integral  parts  of 
the  master's  organization,  armed  with  the  whistle  of 
his  lieutenant.  They  were  stared  at,  it  is  true,  and 
commented  upon,  but  with  awe  now  and  childish 
admiration. 

The  door  of  Blizzard's  house  was  opened  for  them 
by  Kid  Shannon. 

"Why,  Mr.  Shannon,"  exclaimed  Barbara,  "I 
blew  your  whistle,  and  you  never  came." 

"And  wasn't  the  whistling  enough?" 

"Why,  yes." 

He  smiled  the  smile  of  a  general  who  knows  that 
his  troops  are  in  a  state  of  perfect  discipline.  "The 
boss  is  expecting  you,"  he  said.  "Please  step  right 
in." 

A  faint  odor  of  roses  greeted  them. 


XXV 

ONE  light,  not  strong,  illuminated  the  legless  man's 
face.  Barbara  and  her  friends  sat  in  half-darkness. 
Kid  Shannon  went  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe,  closing 
the  door  softly  behind  him.  Of  Rose,  crouched  under 
the  key-board  of  the  grand  piano,  her  hands  on  the 
pedals,  nothing  could  be  seen,  owing  to  a  grouping  of 
small  palms  and  flowers  in  pots.  The  stump  of  Bliz- 
zard's right  leg  touched  her  shoulder.  She  was 
trembling.  So  was  Blizzard.  He  was  trembling 
with  stage  fright;  she  with  Blizzard  fright.  His 
hands,  thick  with  agile  muscles  and  heavy  as  hams, 
though  he  had  just  been  soaking  them  in  hot  water, 
seemed  powerless  to  him,  and  stiff. 

He  struck  a  chord,  and  it  sounded  to  him  not  like 
the  voices  of  a  musical  instrument,  but  like  a  clatter- 
ing together  of  tin  dishes.  This  enraged  him.  His 
self-consciousness  vanished.  Those  ivory  keys  and 
well-tempered  wires  had  fooled  him.  He  hated  his 
piano.  And  he  began  to  punish  it.  The  heavy  hands, 
rising  and  falling  with  the  speed  and  strength  of  light- 
ning strokes,  produced  a  volume  of  tone  which  per- 
haps no  other  player  in  the  world  could  have  equalled. 

Blythe,  a  great  amateur  of  music,  had  come  in  a 
sceptical  mood.  He  now  sat  more  erect,  his  face,  eye- 
brows raised,  turned  to  Blizzard,  his  ears  recalling  to 
him  certain  moments  of  Rubinstein's  playing. 

208 


THE  PENALTY  209 

But  Blizzard  no  longer  hated  his  piano.  It  had 
stood  up  nobly  to  his  assault.  It  was  a  brave  instru- 
ment, well-bred,  a  friend  full  of  rare  qualities — for  a 
friend  to  show  off.  And,  the  swollen  veins  in  his 
forehead  flattening,  he  began  to  make  his  peace  with 
his  piano.  It  could  do  more  than  shout  and  rage.  It 
could  sing  like  an  angel  in  all  languages;  it  could  be 
witty,  humorous,  heart-rending,  heart-healing,  chaste, 
passionate,  helpful,  mischievous.  And  it  could  be 
wise  and  eloquent.  It  could  stand  up  for  a  friend, 
and  explain  his  sins  away,  and  get  him  forgiven  in 
high  places. 

And  even  as  Blizzard  thought,  so  he  played.  He 
was  no  longer  conscious  of  himself  or  his  guests,  not 
even  of  Barbara.  As  for  Rose,  she  was  merely  a 
set  of  pedals  in  perfect  mechanical  adjustment.  He 
was  not  even  conscious  of  his  thoughts.  They  came 
and  went  without  deliberation,  and  were  expressed 
as  they  came  and  dismissed  as  they  went  in  the  terms 
of  his  extraordinary  improvisation. 

But  it  came  to  this  at  last,  that  he  thought  only  of 
beautiful  things,  so  that  even  his  face  was  stripped  of 
wickedness,  and  his  ringers  loosed  one  by  one  the 
voices  of  angels,  until  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  room 
was  full  of  them — all  singing.  And  the  singing  died 
away  to  silence. 

The  legless  man  looked  straight  ahead  of  him  into 
the  dim  room.  Then,  smiling,  his  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  he  caressed  his  piano  so  that  it  gave  out  Chopin's 
7th  Prelude,  which,  as  all  the  world  knows,  is  a  little 


210  THE  PENALTY 

girl  who  smiles  because  she  is  happy;  and  she  is  happy 
because  so  many  of  the  flowers  in  the  garden  are  blue. 
It  is  not  known  why  this  makes  her  happy,  only  that 
it  does. 

And  forthwith  he  played  Chopin  and  only  Chopin: 
brooks  and  pools  of  sound  to  which  you  did  not  listen, 
but  in  which  you  bathed.  And  in  his  soul  the  legless 
man  was  playing  only  for  Barbara,  and  only  to  Bar- 
bara. And  so  powerful  was  this  obsession  that  it 
stole  out  of  him  like  some  hypnotic  influence,  affected 
the  others,  and  gave  him  away.  First  Blythe  looked 
toward  Barbara,  not  realizing  why,  then  Haddon 
looked,  then  Mrs.  Bruce. 

Barbara  felt  the  warm  blood  in  her  cheeks.  She 
was  troubled,  unhappy,  touched.  A  man,  his  face 
full  of  unhappy  yearning,  his  soul  quick  with  genius, 
was  making  love  to  her;  asking  her  to  forget  his 
shortcomings,  to  forgive  his  sins,  to  give  him  a  hand 
upward  out  of  the  dark  places  into  the  light.  He 
followed  her,  always  pleading,  by  brooks,  into  valleys, 
through  flowery  meadows  in  the  early  morning,  into 
solemn  churches,  into  groves  of  cypress  flooded  with 
moonlight. 

Blythe  could  have  sworn  that  a  woman  sobbed,  but 
his  eyes,  used  by  now  to  the  obscurity,  told  him  that 
it  was  neither  Mrs.  Bruce  nor  Barbara.  The  piano 
burst  into  a  storm  of  sound,  under  cover  of  which 
Rose,  still  at  her  post,  torn  with  jealousy,  continued 
to  pedal  at  the  direction  of  her  lord  and  master,  and 
sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Devils  filled  the 


And  in  his  soul  the  legless  man  was 
playing  only  for  Barbara 


THE  PENALTY  211 

room,  whirling  in  mad  dances;  they  screamed  and 
yelled;  the  souls  of  the  damned  screeched  in  torment; 
and  the  face  of  him  who  invoked  the  inferno,  swollen, 
streaming  with  sweat,  the  eyes  glazed,  protruding, 
was  the  face  of  a  madman. 

Rose,  for  whom  her  master's  playing  had  the  elo- 
quence and  precision  of  speech,  forgot  her  jealousy  in 
fear  of  those  consequences  which  her  ill-timed  sob- 
bing must  bring  upon  her.  Her  tears  dried  as  in  a 
desert  wind;  her  sobs  ceased,  and  in  a  moment  or 
two  the  madness  was  going  out  of  Blizzard's  music 
and  out  of  his  face.  He  rested,  preluded,  and  then 
began  to  play  Beethoven,  quietly,  with  a  pure  sing- 
ing tone,  music^of  a  heavenly  sanity. 

The  jarred  feelings  of  his  audience  were  soothed. 
Into  his  own  face  there  stole  a  high-priest  look.  And 
when  he  had  finished  playing,  this  look  remained  for 
a  few  moments.  Then  he  laughed  quietly  and,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time,  expressed  the  hope  that  he  had 
not  made  them  listen  too  long. 

He  reached  for  the  wall  behind  him,  and  turned  a 
switch  so  that  the  room  became  brightly  lighted. 
Then,  reluctantly,  he  came  out  from  behind  the 
piano,  swinging  between  his  crutches,  and  leaving 
Rose  to  escape  at  the  first  favorable  opportunity. 
His  descent  from  colossus  to  cripple  had  an  unpleas- 
ant effect.  And  the  question,  "How  the  deuce  do 
you  work  the  pedals?"  was  jerked  from  Blythe, 
usually  a  most  tactful  person. 

'"Why,"  said  Blizzard  simply,  "I  have  an  assistant." 


212  THE  PENALTY 

He  caught  Barbara's  eye  and  reddened  a  little.  "A 
young  man  who  is  musical  and  intelligent.  We  have 
a  system  of  signals,  and — but  I  think  there  is  a  sort 
of  thought  communication  that  comes  of  much  re- 
hearsing together.  And  in  our  best  moments  we  do 
pretty  well.  But  sometimes  when  our  minds  are  not 
tuned  together  we  make  a  dreadful  hash  of  things." 

He  might  have  added:  "At  such  times  I  drag  her 
about  by  the  hair  and  beat  her."  But  he  didn't. 
He  looked  instead  the  picture  of  a  very  patient  man 
who  makes  the  best  of  things. 

"Whatever  you  do  at  times,"  said  Barbara  gently, 
"you  have  done  wonders  to-night.  But  you  know 
better  than  we  do  how  good  your  playing  is.  So 
what  is  the  use  of  praising  it — to  you?" 

She  felt  that  he  was  her  own  private  discovery — 
almost  her  property.  And  knowing  that  her  friends 
were  still  profoundly  affected  by  his  playing,  she  was 
rilled  with  honest  pride.  Her  eyes  flashed,  her  cheeks 
glowed. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  she  exclaimed.  "Was  I 
right?  Didn't  I  promise  that  he  would  make  good? 
Did  he?" 

She  was  delighted  with  Blizzard,  delighted  with  her- 
self, delighted  with  the  whole  party.  She  had  for- 
gotten the  madman  face  that  he  had  showed.  She 
forgot  that  he  was  a  cripple,  a  thing  soured  and 
wicked.  She  thought  of  him  only  as  a  great  genius, 
which  she  herself  had  discovered. 

The  childlike  pleasure  which  she  felt  communicated 


THE  PENALTY  213 

itself  to  the  others,  and  Blizzard,  escaping  an  ovation 
of  honest  praise,  led  them  into  the  next  room,  where, 
among  palms  and  roses,  such  a  supper  was  spread  as 
gamblers,  the  big  men  of  the  profession,  spread  for 
their  victims. 

The  mere  sight  of  the  champagne-glasses  loosened 
the  men's  tongues.  Talk  flowed.  Mrs.  Bruce  and 
Barbara,  seated  right  and  left  of  their  host,  made 
much  of  his  music  and  his  hospitality.  For  once  in 
his  life  he  was  genuinely  happy.  He  looked  very 
handsome,  very  high-minded,  very  modest,  a  man's 
man.  Sitting,  he  was  much  taller  than  the  others. 
You  forgot /that,  standing,  he  was  but  a  dwarf.  He 
towered  at  the  head  of  his  table,  his  mind  working  in 
swift,  good-natured,  hospitable  flashes.  It  was  ob- 
vious that  he  had  been  born  a  gentleman,  and  that 
he  had  never  "forgotten  how."  It  was  obvious,  too, 
that  he  was  a  man  of  power  and  position,  who  when 
he  wished  could  spend  money  like  a  great  lord,  and 
who  was  accustomed  to  give  orders. 

In  his  manner  to  Barbara  there  was  (perhaps  no- 
ticeable only  to  herself)  an  air  of  long-proved  friend- 
ship and  a  kind  of  guardianly  tenderness,  and  he 
managed  somehow  to  convey  to  her  that  she  had  an 
immense  influence  over  him;  that  he  looked  to  her 
for  help — for  inspiration. 

The  desire  to  make  a  great  man  of  him  invaded  her 
mind.  Her  heart  warmed  toward  him. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Bruce  suddenly,  "where  our  wan- 
dering Wilmot  is  to-night?" 


2i4  THE  PENALTY 

"I  drink  to  him,"  said  the  beggar  quickly,  "wher- 
ever he  is,  and  wish  him  luck." 

But  the  poison  had  been  spilled  on  Barbara's  even- 
ing. For  three  hours  she  had  not  once  thought  of 
the  man  whom  twelve  hours  ago  she  had  really  wanted 
to  marry.  And  her  heart  meanwhile  had  warmed  and 
expanded  toward  one  who  at  best  was  a  prodigiously 
successful  crook  and  rascal,  and  she  was  ashamed. 
But  for  all  that  neither  the  warmth  nor  the  triumphant 
sense  of  influence  and  conquest  went  out  of  her  heart. 
And  later,  when  Mrs.  Bruce  said:  "I  really  think  we 
ought  to  go,"  Barbara,  outwardly  all  sweetness  and 
agreement,  was  inwardly  annoyed.  She  wanted  very 
much  to  stay,  for  she  knew  that  the  moment  she  was 
alone  her  conscience  would  give  her  no  peace,  and  that 
she  would  make  resolutions  which  she  would  not, 
judging  from  past  experiences,  be  able  to  keep.  She 
would  resolve  to  abandon  her  bust  of  Blizzard,  re- 
solve never  to  see  the  creature  again,  since  it  seemed 
that  he  had  in  him  power  upon  her  emotions — dan- 
gerous power. 

"Do  we  work  to-morrow,  Miss  Ferris?" 

The  words,  "No,  I'm  afraid  not  to-morrow,"  rose 
to  her  lips.  The  words,  "Please,  at  the  usual  time," 
came  out. 

And  she  felt  as  if  his  will,  not  her  own,  had  caused 
her  to  say  those  words.  Her  heart  gave  a  sudden 
leap  of  fear. 


XXVI 

BARBARA  knew  very  well  that  she  was  doing  wrong. 
Summer  had  descended,  blazing,  upon  the  city. 
Without  exception  her  friends  had  gone  to  the  coun- 
try. Her  father  had  gone  to  Colorado  upon  an 
errand  of  which  for  the  present  he  chose  to  make  a 
mystery.  She  made  a  habit  of  lunching  at  the 
Colony  Club,  and  occasionally  saw  some  friend  or 
other  who  riad  run  into  town  for  a  face  massage,  a 
hair  wave,  a  gown,  or  a  hat.  But  the  afternoons  and 
evenings  hung  very  heavily  upon  her  hands.  So  that 
she  got  to  living  in  and  for  her  mornings  at  the  studio. 
With  the  appearance  of  Blizzard,  clean,  thoughtful, 
and  forceful,  her  feelings  of  loneliness  and  depression 
vanished.  If  her  vitality  was  at  low  ebb,  his  was  not. 
The  heat  appeared  to  brace  him,  and  he  had  the 
faculty  of  communicating  something  of  his  own  en- 
ergy, so  that  it  was  not  until  she  had  finished  working 
and  dismissed  him  that  she  was  sensible  of  fatigue 
and  discouragement. 

The  man  was  on  his  best  behavior.  He  could  not 
but  realize  that  he  had  established  an  influence  over 
her;  that  she  was  beginning  to  take  him  at  his  own 
estimate  of  himself,  and  to  believe  in  his  pretended 
aspirations.  And  while  he  credited  her  with  no  affec- 
tion for  himself,  he  had  the  presumption  to  imagine 

21$ 


216  THE  PENALTY 

that  his  maimed  condition  and  his  low  station  in  life 
no  longer  made  the  slightest  difference  to  her,  and 
that  finally  her  friendliness  would  turn  into  a  warmer 
feeling.  But  if  not,  he  had  but  to  wait  until  the 
maturity  of  his  plans  should  throw  the  city  into 
chaos,  when  she  would  be  at  his  mercy. 

The  hand  which  he  had  dealt  himself  was  so  full  of 
high  cards  that  the  occasional  losing  of  a  trick  did  not 
disturb  him  in  the  slightest.  He  had  through  her 
father's  hideous  mistake  a  hold  on  Barbara's  con- 
science. As  a  personage  whose  power  over  certain 
sections  of  the  city  was  stronger  than  the  law,  he  had 
a  hold  upon  her  imagination.  As  the  inspirer  of  her 
best  work,  he  had  a  hold  upon  her  gratitude.  He  had, 
or  thought  he  had,  a  chance  to  win  her  affection  in 
open  and  equal  competition.  And,  highest  card  of 
all — ace  of  trumps — he  had  persuaded  her  that  her 
influence  upon  him  was  such  that  with  all  the  strength 
of  remorse  he  was  shaping  his  life  toward  high  ideals. 

In  his  heart  she  was  usually,  but  not  always,  the 
first  consideration.  Sometimes  the  passion  of  ambi- 
tion overlapped  the  passion  of  love.  And  sometimes 
he  felt  that  he  would  forego  the  fruition  of  all  his 
plans  if  only  by  some  miracle  his  legs  could  be  re- 
stored to  him. 

But  on  the  whole,  he  had  reached  a  high-water 
mark  of  self-satisfaction.  He  had  found  it  easy  to 
carry  corruption  into  high  places.  A  list  of  those 
who  were  in  his  power — willing  or  unwilling — would 
have  horrified  the  whole  nation.  From  O'Hagan  in 


THE  PENALTY  217 

the  West  came  reports  that  all  went  well  with  the 
organization,  and  that  Wilmot  Allen  was  displaying 
genius  in  teaching  inexperienced  Polacks  to  shoot. 

On  his  walks  through  the  city  the  legless  man  car- 
ried a  high  head,  and  looked  about  him  with  the  eye 
of  a  landlord.  His  imagination  was  so  strong  that 
he  had  already  the  feelings  of  a  genuine  conqueror, 
and  not  of  a  man  confronted  by  the  awful  possibilities 
of  failure.  And  by  some  subtlety  of  mental  com- 
munication Barbara  was  coming  more  and  more  into 
this  same  opinion  of  him.  And  in  realizing  this,  and 
in  allowing  their  relations  to  continue,  she  knew  that 
she  was  doing  wrong. 

She  compared  her  model  with  all  the  men  she  had 
known,  always  to  conclude  that  there  was  in  him  a 
sort  of  greatness  utterly  wanting  in  the  others.  If 
he  had  revealed  his  plans  to  her,  she  would  have  be- 
lieved him  not  only  capable  of  carrying  them  out,  but 
sure  to  do  so — if  he  wished.  He  might  be  Satan 
fallen,  but  he  was  still  a  god.  In  the  early  days  of 
their  association  she  had  felt  herself  the  important 
person  of  the  two,  and  her  bust  of  him  the  most  im- 
portant thing  in  the  world.  He  and  she  would  surely 
die,  but  the  bust  had  a  chance  to  live.  But  now  she 
had  the  feeling  that  the  work  was  of  less  importance 
than  the  man;  and  that  she  herself  was  an  insig- 
nificant spoiled  person  of  no  importance  whatever. 
When  Blizzard  entered  the  studio  she  had  the  feeling 
that  a  great  and  busy  man  was,  out  of  pure  good 
nature,  wasting  his  time  upon  an  unknown  artist. 


2i8  THE  PENALTY 

But  she  knew  very  well  that  such  was  not  the  case. 
She  knew  that  he  came  to  the  studio  because  she  at- 
tracted him,  and  for  no  other  reason.  And  at  times 
she  felt  keenly  curious  to  know  just  how  much  she 
attracted  him,  and  the  morbid  wish,  for  which  she 
hated  herself;  of  leading  him  into  some  sort  of  a 
declaration. 


XXVII 

HOWEVER  unnecessary  the  hot  waves  of  the  New 
York  summer  may  appear  to  some  people,  they  were 
never  wasted  on  Bubbles.  He  had  a  passion  for  the 
water,  and  to  his  love  of  swimming  was  added  a  pas- 
sion for  the  underworld  gossip  with  which  the  piers 
of  the  East  River  reek  in  bathing  weather.  For  just 
as  mice  are  more  intimate  with  the  details  of  houses 
than  landlords  are,  so  the  small  boys  of  a  city  have 
the  best  opportunities  for  being  acquainted  with  its 
workings,  and  with  the  intimate  lives  of  its  inhabi- 
tants. The  street-boy's  mind  matures  while  his  body 
is  still  that  of  a  child.  Births  and  deaths  are  familiar 
spectacles  to  him.  He  knows  and  holds  of  high  im- 
port hundreds  of  things  which  men  have  forgotten. 
He  can  see  in  the  dark.  He  can  hide  in  a  handful  of 
shadow.  And  when  he  isn't  overhearing  on  his  own 
hook,  he  is  listening  to  what  somebody  else  has  over- 
heard. Second-story  men  fear  him,  lovers  loathe 
him,  and  nature,  who  has  been  thwarted  in  her  in- 
tention that  he  should  run  in  sweet  meadows,  sleep 
in  fresh  air,  and  bathe  in  clean  water,  sighs  over  him. 
It  was  so  hot  that  the  policeman  whose  duty  and 
privilege  it  was  to  see  that  no  small  boy  cooled  him- 
self from  Pier  31  A,  disappeared  tactfully  into  the 

219 


220  THE  PENALTY 

family  entrance  of  a  water-front  saloon.  The  city 
had  many  laws  which  to  this  particular  officer  ap- 
peared unreasonable  and  which  he  enforced  only 
when  he  couldn't  help  himself.  In  men  there  is  the 
need  of  gambling  and  some  other  things.  As  for 
small  boys,  they  must  play  baseball  and  they  must 
swim. 

Bubbles  went  overboard  at  about  three  o'clock. 
There  were  twenty  or  thirty  boys  of  all  sizes  already 
in  the  water,  and  the  addition  of  one  to  the  struggling 
group  of  wet  heads  was  not  to  be  noticed.  Nor  was 
the  disappearance  of  that  head  noticed,  nor  the  fact 
that  it  appeared  to  remain  under  water  for  nearly 
three-quarters  of  an  hour,  nor  that  when  it  finally 
did  emerge  it  looked  on  the  whole  as  if  it  had  seen  a 
ghost. 

Bubbles,  it  seems,  was  less  interested  in  the  waters 
around  Pier  31 A  than  in  the  waters  underneath.  And 
for  this  reason:  on  the  previous  night,  while  stripping 
for  a  swim,  he  had  heard  a  muffled  sound  of  voices 
coming  from  directly  under  the  pier,  followed  by  a 
long  subdued  roaring  as  of  a  load  of  earth  being  emp- 
tied into  the  water.  Now,  under  Harry  West's  tu- 
ition Bubbles  had  formed  the  habit  of  investigating 
whatever  he  did  not  understand.  And  he  wished 
very  much  to  find  out  why  people  should  talk  under 
piers  at  night,  how  they  could  get  under  Pier  31 A 
except  by  swimming,  and  if  they  were  throwing  earth 
overboard  why  they  were  doing  so,  and  where  they 
got  the  earth. 


THE  PENALTY  221 

His  head  filled  with  vague  and  highly  colored  no- 
tions of  a  smugglers'  cave,  his  narrow  lungs  rilled 
with  air,  Bubbles  dove,  swam  between  two  slimy  bar- 
nacled piles,  and  came  up  presently  in  a  dark,  dank, 
stale,  gurgling  region,  wonderfully  cool  after  the  blaz- 
ing sunlight  which  he  had  just  left. 

Toward  the  shore  the  light  that  filtered  between 
the  supporting  piles  of  Pier  3iA  became  less  and  less, 
until  completely  shut  off  by  walls  of  solid  masonry. 
Into  this  darkness  Bubbles  swam  with  great  caution, 
accustoming  his  eyes  to  the  obscurity  and  holding 
himself  ready  to  dive  in  retreat  at  the  first  alarm. 

The  shore  end  of  Pier  31 A  had  originally  been  a 
clean  wall  of  solid  masonry.  The  removal  of  half  a 
dozen  great  blocks  of  stone  had  made  a  jagged  open- 
ing in  the  midst  of  this,  and  into  this  opening,  pulling 
himself  a  little  out  of  the  water,  Bubbles  strained  and 
strained  his  eyes  and  saw  nothing  but  the  beginning 
of  a  passageway  and  then  pitch  darkness. 

His  heart  beat  very  hard  and  fast  like  the  heart  of 
a  caught  bird.  Here,  leading  into  the  city  from  the 
shore  of  the  East  River,  was  a  mysterious  passage- 
way. Who  had  made  it  and  why?  There  were  two 
ways  of  finding  out.  One  was  to  wait  patiently  until 
some  one  entered  the  passage  or  emerged  from  it. 
The  other  way,  and  the  better,  was  to  forget  how 
very  much  the  idea  of  so  doing  frightened  you,  climb 
into  the  opening,  and  follow  the  passage  to  its  other 
end.  Bubbles  compromised.  He  waited  patiently  for 
half  an  hour.  Nothing  happened.  Then  he  pulled 


222  THE  PENALTY 

himself  into  the  opening  and  crawled  through  the 
darkness  for  perhaps  the  length  of  a  city  block. 

"What,"  he  then  said  to  himself,  "is  the  use  of 
me  going  any  further?  I  can't  see  in  the  dark.  I've 
got  no  matches,  and  if  anything  happens  to  me, 
there'll  be  nobody  to  tell  Harry  about  this  place. 
Better  make  a  get-away  now,  find  Harry,  and  bring 
him  here  to-night.  Then  if  we  find  anybody  there'll 
be  something  doing." 

He  had  turned  and  was  crawling  rather  rapidly 
toward  the  entrance  of  the  passage. 


XXVIII 

BUBBLES'S  problem  was  to  locate  Harry  West.  And 
he  wrestled  with  it,  if  trying  to  cover  the  whole  of  a 
scorching  hot  city  on  a  pair  of  insufficient  legs  and  a 
very  limited  amount  of  carfare  may  be  called  wres- 
tling. His  search  took  him  into  many  odd  places 
where  you  could  not  have  expected  to  cross  the  trail 
of  an  honest  man.  He  even  made  inquiries  of  a 
master-plumber,  of  a  Fourth  Avenue  vender  of  an- 
tiques, of  a  hairy  woman  with  one  eye  who  ran  a 
news-stand,  of  a  bar-tender,  of  saloon-keepers  and 
bootblacks.  He  drifted  through  a  department  store, 
and  whispered  to  a  pretty  girl  who  sold  "art  pictures." 
She  shook  her  head.  He  spoke  a  word  to  the  negro 
sentinel  of  a  house  in  the  West  Forties,  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  quiet,  padded  rooms,  containing  everything 
which  is  necessary  to  separate  hopeful  persons  from 
their  money.  In  one  room  a  number  of  book-makers 
were  whiling  away  the  hot  afternoon  with  poker  for 
small  stakes.  In  another  room,  played  upon  by  an 
electric  fan,  sat  Mr.  Lichtenstein,  the  proprietor.  He 
was  bent  over  a  table  on  which  he  had  assembled 
fifteen  or  twenty  of  the  component  parts  of  a  very 
large  picture-puzzle.  He  was  small,  plump  and  ear- 
nest. He  may  have  been  a  Jew,  but  he  had  bright 
red  hair  and  a  pug  nose.  His  eyes,  bright,  quick, 

223 


224  THE  PENALTY 

small,  brown,  and  kind,  were  very  busy  hunting  among 
the  brightly  colored  pieces  of  the  puzzle. 

"  'Daf ternoon,  Mr.  Lichtenstein,"  said  Bubbles. 

"  'Daf ternoon,  Bubbles,"  said  Mr.  Lichtenstein, 
without  looking  up. 

"How  d'je  know  it  was  me?" 

"I  saw  you  in  the  looking-glass.  What's  the 
news?" 

"It's  for  Harry." 

"And  Harry  is — where?" 

"Don't  you  know  where  Harry  is?" 

"I  do.  But  you  can't  get  to  him."  Mr.  Lichten- 
stein lowered  his  voice.  "He's  gone  West,  Bub,  on 
the  trail  of  O'Hagan.  The  plant  the  old  one  is  grow- 
ing hasn't  put  its  head  above  ground  yet,  and  the 
roots  are  in  the  West.  Out  in  Utah  they're  teaching 
all  kinds  of  Polacks  to  shoot  rifles.  Why?  O'Hagan 
is  travelling  from  one  mine  to  another  as  a  common 
laborer.  Why?  While  here  in  little  New  York,  the 
old  one  is  sitting  for  his  portrait  and  getting  a  per- 
fectly innocent  young  girl  talked  about.  No  use  to 
watch  the  old  one  till  later." 

"But,"  said  Bubbles,  "suppose  some  one  was  to 
find  a  secret  passage  leading  from  the  East  River 
to— to " 

"To  where?" 

"He  doesn't  know  where.  He  wanted  to  get 
Harry  to  go  with  him  to  find  out." 

"Where  does  the  passage  begin,  Bubbles?" 

"Under  Pier  3iA." 


"  'D  afternoon,  Mr.  Lichtenstein,"  said 
Bubbles 


THE  PENALTY  225 

"Come  over  here,  Bub,"  said  Mr.  Lichtenstein  and 
led  the  way  to  a  mahogany  table  covered  with  green 
baize.  Upon  this  he  spread  a  folding-map  of  New 
York  City  that  he  took  from  his  inside  pocket.  With 
the  rapidity  of  thought  his  stubby  forefinger  found 
Pier  31 A  and  passed  from  it  to  the  crook  in  Marrow 
Lane.  And  he  said : 

"Hum!  The  bee-line  of  it  leads  straight  to  Bliz- 
zard's place.  There  are  two  things  to  find  out,  Bub. 
Is  the  passage  straight?  And  how  long  is  it?  A 
light  in  the  entrance  to  sight  by  will  answer  question 
No.  i,  and  a  ball  of  twine  to  be  unwound  at  leisure 
will  answer  No.  2." 

"You'd  ought  to  have  a  compass,"  Bubbles  sug- 
gested, "  to  know  just  how  she  runs." 

"True,"  said  Mr.  Lichtenstein.  "Happy  thought. 
And  you  could  borrow  one  mounted  in  tiger's  eye 
from  a  friend." 

He  laughed,  took  the  little  compass  in  question 
from  its  watch  chain,  and  gave  it  to  Bubbles.  Then, 
his  voice  losing  its  bantering  tone  and  taking  on  a 
kind  of  faltering  sincerity,  he  asked : 

"Do  you  want  to  play  this  hand,  Bubbles,  or  do 
you  want  me  to  delegate  some  one  else?  " 

"It's  my  graft,"  said  Bubbles,  "I'd  like  to  see  it 
through." 

Mr.  Lichtenstein  looked  upon  the  boy  with  a  cer- 
tain pride  and  tenderness.  "I'd  like  to  go  with  you," 
he  said,  "but  I  can't  run  any  risks.  There's  the 
strings  of  too  many  things  in  my  head.  In  every 


226  THE  PENALTY 

battle  there  has  to  be  a  general  who  sits  on  a  hill  out 
of  danger  and  orders  other  people  to  do  brave  things. 
Remember  that  you've  worked  for  us  ever  since 
Harry  came  in  and  said,  laughing,  'Governor,  I've 
made  friends  with  a  bright  baby  that  knows  how  to 
keep  his  mouth  shut.'  You've  only  to  step  up  to 
Blizzard  and  say,  'Abe  Lichtenstein  is  the  head/  to 
bring  the  gun-men  down  on  me.  But  you'd  die  first." 

The  boy's  breast  swelled  with  pride  and  martial 
ardor.  "Betcher  life,"  he  said,  and  then:  "If  I  get 
the  news  will  I  bring  it  here?" 

Mr.  Lichtenstein  considered  for  a  minute.  Then 
shook  his  head.  "I'll  be  in  Blicker's  drug-store  be- 
tween 'leven  and  midnight,"  he  said. 

"If  I  don't  show  up  it'll  be  because  I  can't." 

Mr.  Lichtenstein  smiled  encouragingly.  "Don't 
look  on  the  dark  side  of  the  future,"  he  said,  "but 
don't  take  any  chances,  and  don't  show  a  light  till 
you  have  to." 


XXIX 

THE  night  was  hot,  but  the  rising  tide  had  brought 
in  cold  water  from  the  ocean,  and  what  with  his  ex- 
citement and  trepidation  it  was  a  very  shivery  small 
boy  that  began  to  investigate  the  passage  under  Pier 
3 1 A.  Mindful  of  Mr.  Lichtenstein's  advice  not  to 
show  a  light  till  he  had  to,  Bubbles  felt  his  way  for- 
ward very  slowly  in  the  inky  darkness,  unrolling,  as 
he  went,  a  huge  ball  of  twine.  It  would  be  time  to 
take  the  bearings  of  the  place  by  compass  when  he 
had  ascertained  its  general  extent  and  whether  it  was 
free  from  human  occupants.  On  this  score  he  felt 
comparatively  safe,  since  it  seemed  likely  that  the 
passage  had  been  constructed  with  a  view  to  emer- 
gency rather  than  daily  use. 

Having  advanced  a  distance  of  about  three  short 
city  blocks,  it  seemed  to  Bubbles  as  if  the  passage 
had  opened  suddenly  into  a  room.  If  so,  he  had  to 
thank  instinct  for  the  knowledge,  since  he  could  see 
but  an  inch  in  the  blackness.  He  had  the  feeling  that 
walls  were  no  longer  passing  near  him,  and,  groping 
cautiously  this  way  and  that,  he  found  it  to  be  fact 
and  not  fancy.  During  these  gropings  he  lost  his 
sense  of  direction,  and,  after  considering  the  matter 
at  some  length,  he  concluded  that  the  time  had  come 
to  flash  his  torch.  But  first  he  listened  for  a  long 

227 


228  THE  PENALTY 

time.  At  last,  satisfied  that  he  was  alone,  his  thumb 
began  to  press  against  the  switch  of  his  torch.  A 
shaft  of  light  bored  into  the  darkness,  and  he  saw  two 
wildly  bearded  men,  who  sat  with  their  backs  against 
a  wall  of  living  rock  and  looked  straight  at  him. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly  frozen  solid,  so 
dreadful  was  his  surprise  and  horror,  but  the  men 
with  the  wild  heads  showed  no  emotion.  They  had 
a  pale,  tired,  hopeless  look;  and  though  one  was  dark 
and  one  blond,  this  expression,  common  to  both,  gave 
them  an  appearance  of  being  twin  brothers.  They 
had  gentle  soft  eyes  in  which  was  no  sign  of  surprise 
or  agitation.  It  seemed  as  if  they  were  perfectly 
accustomed  to  having  light  suddenly  flashed  into 
them.  One  of  the  men  leaned  forward  and  began  to 
run  his  hand  this  way  and  that  over  the  hard  dirt 
floor. 

"Lost  something?"  said  the  other  suddenly. 

"Dropped  my  plug,"  said  the  first  in  a  dull  weary 
voice,  and  he  continued  to  feel  for  and  repeatedly 
just  miss  a  half -cake  of  chewing- tobacco.  Bubbles 
could  see  it  distinctly,  and  another  thing  was  clear 
to  him:  the  men  were  both  blind. 

With  this  knowledge  certain  frayed  and  tattered 
fragments  of  courage  returned  to  him,  and,  what  was 
of  much  greater  importance,  his  presence  of  mind. 

The  excavation  in  which  he  stood  was  nearly  forty 
feet  square.  His  torch  showed  him  the  passage  by 
which  he  had  entered,  and  opposite  this  a  flight  of 
steps  leading  sharply  upward.  Here  and  there,  lean- 


THE  PENALTY  229 

ing  against  the  walls,  were  picks  and  shovels  and 
other  tools  used  in  excavating.  Near  the  centre  of 
the  passage  was  a  tall  pile  of  dirt  and  loose  stones,  to- 
gether with  two  small  wheelbarrows  of  sheet-iron. 

Just  as  Bubbles  had  ascertained  these  facts  and  got 
himself  into  a  much  calmer  state  of  mind,  he  had  a 
fresh  thrill  of  horror.  The  two  blind  men  sighed,  and 
as  if  moved  by  a  common  impulse  got  up,  and  the 
little  boy  saw  that,  like  Blizzard,  the  beggar,  they 
had  no  legs.  With  perfect  accuracy  of  direction  they 
turned  to  the  great  pile  of  dirt,  and  taking  up  two 
shovels  which  leaned  against  it  began  to  fill  the  two 
little  wheelbarrows. 

They  labored  slowly  as  if  time  was  of  no  moment, 
as  if  the  work  in  hand  was  a  form  of  punishment  in- 
stead of  something  that  it  was  intended  to  complete. 

Bubbles  had  begun  to  wonder  what  they  were 
going  to  do  with  the  dirt,  when  one  of  them,  having 
filled  his  barrow,  trundled  off  with  it  into  the  passage- 
way leading  to  the  river.  And  to  Bubbles,  feverishly 
listening,  there  came  after  what  seemed  a  very  long 
interval  a  sound  as  of  earth  being  dumped  into  water. 

The  second  excavator,  having  filled  his  barrow, 
waited  the  return  of  his  companion,  since  the  passage 
was  too  narrow  to  admit  of  the  two  barrows  meeting 
and  passing  each  other. 

And  that  simple  fact  was  very  alarming  to  Bubbles, 
since  virtually  it  made  a  prisoner  of  him.  One  man 
with  his  barrow  full  or  empty  was  always  in  the 
passage. 


230  THE  PENALTY 

Nor  was  there  any  possibility  of  escape  by  the  flight 
of  stairs  which  he  had  noticed,  for  a  hurried  examina- 
tion revealed  a  door  of  sheet-iron  which  did  not  give 
to  his  most  determined  efforts.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  wait  until  the  blind  men  should  rest  from 
their  labors. 

He  got  used  to  them  gradually;  lost  his  fear  of 
them.  Once  in  a  while  they  spoke  to  each  other, 
always  with  a  kind  of  lugubrious  gentleness  in  their 
voices.  He  began  to  feel  sorry  for  them.  He  wished 
to  be  of  service  to  them  in  some  way  or  other.  Their 
wild  beards  and  shaggy,  matted  hair  no  longer  ter- 
rified him.  They  were  two  lambs  made  up  to  repre- 
sent wolves,  but  the  merest  child  must  have  seen 
through  the  disguisement. 

Upon  the  ball  of  twine  which  Bubbles  still  held  in 
his  hand  there  was  a  sudden  tug.  It  fell  to  the  ground 
with  a  thump  and  rolled  toward  the  blind  laborer 
who  had  just  filled  his  barrow.  He  was  much  startled 
and  turned  his  blind  eyes  this  way  and  that;  then 
called  to  his  mate,  at  that  moment  coming  from  the 
passageway. 

"I  heard  something  drop,"  he  said;  "somebody 
dropped  something.  I  thought  I  heard  steps  on  the 
stairs,  and  now  I  know  I  did." 

But  the  other  had  found  the  twine  lying  the  length 
of  the  passage.  "  Some  one's  come  in  from  the  river," 
he  said,  "and  dropped  all  this  string." 

He  began  to  gather  it  in,  hand  over  hand,  paused 
suddenly,  and  then,  with  a  kind  of  bravado  of  terri- 


THE  PENALTY  231 

fied  politeness,  and  with  a  bob  of  his  wild,  dark  head, 
exclaimed: 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Blizzard!" 

Then  the  pair  cowered  as  if  they  expected  to  be 
struck,  and  after  a  long  while  the  blond  one  said: 

"It  ain't  him." 

Then  the  dark  one: 

"Don't  be  scared  of  us.  We  couldn't  hurt  a  fly  if 
we  wanted  to.  Who  is  it?" 

Now  it  seemed  to  Bubbles  all  of  a  sudden  (though 
the  mention  of  Blizzard's  name  had  once  more  given 
him  the  horrors)  that  any  risk  run  in  revealing  his 
presence  to  the  blind  men  was  more  than  compen- 
sated by  the  consequent  possibility  of  "finding  out 
things"  from  them.  So  he  said: 

"It's  only  me — just  a  boy.  I  found  this  hole  swim- 
min'  and  come  in  to  see  what  it  was  for." 

"It's  only  a  boy,"  said  the  blond  man. 

"He  wouldn't  hurt  us,"  said  the  dark  one. 

"Maybe  you'll  tell  me  what  all  this  cellar  work  is 
for,"  said  Bubbles. 

The  dark  man  scratched  his  matted  head.  "We 
don't  know,"  he  said;  "we  was  just  put  in  here  to 
dig.  At  first  there  was  ten  of  us;  but  we  was  kep' 
on  to  give  the  finishin'  touches." 

"What  became  of  the  others?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Blizzard,  he's  got  other  work  for  them." 

"Is  this  place  under  his  house?" 

"No,  sir,  it  ain't.  But  the  cellar  at  the  head  of 
them  steps  is." 


232  THE  PENALTY 

"Maybe  he's  hollered  this  out  to  hide  things  in?" 

The  blind  men  turned  toward  each  other  and 
nodded  their  heads. 

"That's  just  presactly  what  we  think,"  said  the 
blond  one. 

"What  do  you  do  when  you  aren't  working?" 

"Oh,  we  sleeps  and  eats  in  Blizzard's  cellar." 

"How  long  you  been  on  the  job?" 

"We  don't  know.    We  lost  track." 

"See  much  of  Blizzard?" 

"Oh,  he's  in  and  out,  just  to  keep  things  going." 

"Is  the  passage  to  the  river  just  to  get  rid  of  the 
dirt?" 

The  dark  man  laughed  sheepishly.  "We  don't 
think  so,"  he  said — "we  gets  lots  of  time  to  think. 
And  it  ain't  always  dirt  that  goes  into  the  river. 
Twicet  it's  been  men,  and  once  it  were  a  woman. 
There  was  lead  pipe  wrapped  round  the  bodies  to 
make  'em  sink.  And  oncet  Blizzard  he  tumbled  a 
girl  down  the  stairs  to  us.  But  she  weren't  dead, 
and  me  and  Bill  took  the  lead  off  her  before  we 
throwed  her  in." 

His  comrade  interrupted.  "She  said  she  could 
swim.  She  said  if  we'd  take  the  lead  off  and  untie 
her  and  give  her  a  chanst,  we  could  have  a  kiss  apiece. 
But  we  let  her  go  fer  nothin'." 

"Did  she  get  away?"  Bubbles  was  tremendously 
interested. 

"No,  sir.  It  was  dark  night,  and  she  couldn't  find 
a  way  out  from  under  the  wharf.  She  just  swam 


THE  PENALTY  233 

round  and  round,  slower  and  slower,  like  a  mouse  in 
a  wash-tub.  Then  she  calls  out  she'll  come  back 
and  we  can  hide  her  till  daylight.  But  she  don't 
make  it.  We  has  to  stand  there  and  listen  to  her 
drown." 

"When  she's  dead  she  gets  out  into  the  open  river, 
and  when  Blizzard  hears  she's  been  found  without 
any  lead  on  her  he  raises  hell." 

"When  he  gets  through  with  us  we  was  most 
skinned  alive." 

"He  wouldn't  dig  that  hole  to  the  river,"  said  Bub- 
bles, "just  to  get  rid  of  people.  What  do  you  think 
it's  for?" 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  tell  Blizzard  you  been  here,  nor 
get  us  in  trouble?" 

"I'll  get  you  out  of  this  some  day,  but  you  can't 
get  in  no  trouble  through  me." 

"Then,"  said  the  blond  man,  "this  is  what  we 
thinks  out  and  concludes:  Blizzard  he's  calculatin'  to 
receive  stolen  goods  wholesale.  First  he  stores  'em  in 
here  until  this  cellar  is  full,  and  then  he  takes  'em 
down  to  the  river  and  puts  'em  aboard  a  ship  bound 
fur  furrin'  ports,  and  we  thinks  and  concludes  that 
he'll  make  his  get-away  about  the  same  time." 

"  Well,"  said  Bubbles,  "  I'm  obliged.  I  won't  forget 
your  kindness.  But  it's  time  I  was  off." 

"  Come  close  first,"  said  the  blond  man. 

Bubbles  was  instantly  alarmed.    "Why?" 

"Only  so's  we  can  feel  your  face,  so's  to  know  what 
you  look  like." 


234  THE  PENALTY 

He  stood  impatient  and  embarrassed  while  they 
pawed  his  face  with  hard,  grimy  hands. 

At  last  they  let  him  go,  he  whose  barrow  was  full 
accompanying  him  to  the  end  of  the  passageway,  and 
speeding  him  on  his  way  with  this  comfortable  re- 
mark: 

"If  you  was  to  dive  deep  and  feel  around,  you 
might  find  those  as  is  leaded  to  the  bottom." 

It  took  every  ounce  of  nerve  that  Bubbles  had  at 
command  to  let  his  legs  and  body  slip  down  into  the 
cold  and  tragic  current.  It  seemed  certain  that  dead 
hands  were  reaching  for  him.  But  he  screwed  his 
courage  up  to  the  sticking  point,  and  called  to  his 
acquaintance  in  the  passage-mouth  a  whispered  but 
nonchalant,  "S'long!" 


XXX 

WHEN  Bubbles  entered  Blicker's  drug-store,  the  city 
clocks  were  striking  a  quarter  to  twelve,  but  the  place 
was  still  brightly  lighted,  and  at  the  soda-counter  a 
young  man  was  treating  his  flame  to  a  glass  of  choc- 
olate vanilla  ice-cream. 

Bubbles  marched  to  the  prescription  counter,  and 
began  to  unwrap  a  bloody  handkerchief  from  his  left 
hand.  Then  he  began  to  clear  his  throat.  This 
brought  Mr.  Blicker  from  a  region  of  mortar  pestles, 
empty  pill-boxes,  and  glass  retorts. 

"What  you  want?"  he  asked  aggressively. 

"I  want  me  thumb  bandaged." 

"You  cut  him— eh?" 

Bubbles  lowered  his  voice.    "On  a  barnacle." 

"Come  in  back  here,"  said  Mr.  Blicker  roughly. 
"I  fix  him."  But  once  out  of  sight  in  the  depths  of 
the  store,  his  manner  changed,  and  he  patted  Bubbles 
enthusiastically  on  the  back.  "You  have  found  out 
some  things?  " 

"Sure— lots." 

The  chemist,  without  commenting,  began  to  treat 
the  cut  thumb,  washing,  disinfecting,  and  bandaging. 
Then,  very  loud,  for  the  benefit  perhaps  of  the  lovers 

235 


236  THE  PENALTY 

at  the  soda-counter,  "So,"  he  said,  "I  let  you  out  the 
back  door." 

And  he  actually  opened  a  door,  slammed  it  shut, 
and  turned  a  key  in  the  lock.  But  it  was  a  closet 
door.  Then  with  a  finger  on  his  lips  he  pointed  to  a 
narrow  staircase  and,  his  own  feet  making  a  great 
tramping,  led  the  way  up  it.  Upon  the  top  steps 
they  found  Mr.  Lichtenstein,  nervously  puffing  clouds 
of  tobacco  smoke. 

"'Bout  given  you  up,"  he  said.     "Good  boy!" 

"Better  talk  by  the  parlor,"  said  Blicker;  "here  is 
too  exposed." 

When  the  door  of  the  stuffy  little  parlor  had  closed 
behind  them,  the  proprietor  began  to  smile  and  beam. 
But  Mr.  Lichtenstein  looked  grave  and  troubled.  It 
was  not  for  pleasure  that  he  sometimes  found  occa- 
sion to  put  dangerous  work  in  the  hands  of  children. 

"Hurt  your  thumb  bad?"  he  asked. 

Bubbles  shook  his  head  and  plunged  into  his  story. 
Now  and  then  the  German  laughed,  but  the  red- 
haired,  pug-nosed  Jew  appeared  to  sink  deeper  and 
deeper  into  his  own  thoughts,  only  showing  by  an 
occasional  question  that  he  was  following  the  boy's 
narrative.  Bubbles  wished  to  dwell  at  length  and 
with  comment  upon  the  use  of  the  passage  for  dis- 
posing of  dead  bodies,  but  to  Mr.  Lichtenstein  this 
appeared  to  be  merely  a  natural  by-product  of  its 
construction. 

"It  wasn't  dug  for  that,"  he  said.  "How  big  is  the 
main  excavation?" 


"I  want  me  thumb  bandaged" 


THE  PENALTY  237 

"  'Bout  as  big  as  a  small  East  Side  dance-hall." 

Mr.  Lichtenstein  turned  to  the  German.  "Hold  a 
lot  of  loot— what?" 

"I  bet  me,"  said  the  German,  and  washed  his  hands 
with  air. 

"Lot  o'  what?"  asked  Bubbles. 

"Loot — gold,  silver,  jewels,  bullion." 

"Your  ideas,"  said  the  German,  "is  all  idiot.  No 
mans  is  such  a  darn  fool  as  to  think  he  can  get  away 
by  such  a  business — no  mans,  that  is,  but  is  crazy." 

"Blizzard  is  crazy,"  said  Mr.  Lichtenstein  simply. 
"It  wasn't  until  we  hit  on  that  hypothesis  that  we 
made  any  progress.  Bubbles,  did  you  ever  hear  of 
the  Massacre  of  Saint  Bartholomew?" 

"Sure,"  said  Bubbles,  "they  shot  him  full  of  ar- 
rows." 

"That  was  Saint  Sebastian,"  corrected  the  Jew. 
"Now  listen,  this  is  history.  On  the  night  of  August 
24,  1572,  two  thousand  men,  distinguished  from  other 
men  by  white  cockades  in  their  hats,  on  the  order  of 
a  crazy  man,  at  the  tolling  of  a  bell,  drew  their  swords, 
murdered  everybody  in  a  great  city  who  opposed 
their  leaders,  and  made  themselves  absolute  masters 
of  the  place.  What  two  thousand  men  did  in  Paris 
during  the  Middle  Ages,  ten  thousand  men  acting  hi 
concert  could  do  in  New  York  to-day.  If  a  man  rose 
up  with  the  power  to  command  such  a  following,  with 
the  ability  to  keep  his  plans  absolutely  secret,  with 
the  genius  to  make  plans  in  which  there  were  no 
flaws,  he  could  loot  Maiden  Lane,  the  Sub-Treasury, 


238  THE  PENALTY 

Tiffany's,  the  Metropolitan  Museum — and  gel  away 
with  it." 

Mr.  Lichtenstein's  small  eyes  glittered.  He  was 
visibly  excited.  And  so  was  Mr.  Blicker. 

"He  will  loot  the  Metropolitan  Museum,"  said  this 
one,  "but  what  will  he  do  with  the  metropolitan 
police?  " 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Lichtenstein,  "I  am  only  sup- 
posing. But  suppose  some  fine  night  a  building  some- 
where central  was  blown  up  with  dynamite.  Sup- 
pose the  sound  was  so  big  that  it  could  be  heard 
in  every  part  of  greater  New  York.  Suppose  at  the 
sound  every  policeman  in  greater  New  York  was  shot 
dead  in  his  tracks — 

Bubbles's  hair  began  to  bristle.  "Say,"  he  cried 
in  his  excitement,  "the  straw  hats — the  soft  straw 
hats  that  Blizzard  makes  and  don't  sell — they're  the 
white  cockades!" 

Mr.  Blicker  guffawed.  Mr.  Lichtenstein  rose  and 
paced  the  room. 

"And  that  proves,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  nothing  is 
to  happen  when  you  and  I  are  wearing  straw  hats — 
but  in  winter.  Bubbles,  you're  a  bright  boy!" 

"You  are  both  so  bright,"  said  Mr.  Blicker,  "you 
keep  me  all  the  time  laughing." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Lichtenstein,  "that  may  be,  but 
suppose  you  tell  me  why  Blizzard  makes  straw  hats 
and  don't  sell  'em.  Tell  me  why  he's  dug  such  a 
great  hole  under  his  house  with  a  passage  leading  to 
the  river,  and  ships.  Tell  me  why  O'Hagan  is  drill- 


THE  PENALTY  239 

ing  men  in  the  West.  Tell  me  why  Blizzard  has  gone 
out  of  the  white-slave  business.  It  fetched  him  in  a 
pretty  penny." 

"I  think  I  can  answer  the  last  question,"  said 
Bubbles. 

"Do  then." 

"I  think,"  said  the  small  boy,  "that  he's  got  some 
good  in  hmi  somewhere,  and  I  know  he's  dead  gone 
on  my  Miss  Ferris.  I  think  he's  ashamed  o'  some  o' 
the  things  he's  done." 

Mr.  Lichtenstein  considered  this  at  some  length. 
Then  he  said:  "Well,  that's  possible.  But  it's  an  ab- 
solutely new  idea  to  me.  Blizzard  ashamed  ?  Hum ! " 


XXXI 

"TRUE  that  policemen  take  money  in  exchange  for 
protection?  True  that  they  practise  blackmail  and  ex- 
tortion? Of  course  it's  true.  Whenever  a  big  temp- 
tation appears  loose  in  a  city  half  the  people  who 
get  a  look  at  it  trip  and  fall.  Oh,  I'd  like  to  re- 
form this  city,  Miss  Barbara — and  this  country.  I'd 
like  to  be  dictator  for  six  months." 

"Who  wouldn't?  "  said  Barbara.  "But  what  would 
you  do?  Where  would  you  begin?" 

"I  should  be  drastic  at  first,"  said  the  legless  man, 
"and  kind  later.  I'd  begin,"  he  went  on,  his  eyes 
smiling,  "with  a  general  massacre  of  incompetents — 
old  men  with  too  little  money,  young  men  with  too 
much — old  maids,  aliens,  incurables,  the  races  that 
are  too  clever  to  work,  the  races  that  are  too  stupid, 
habitual  drunkards,  spreaders  of  disease,  the  women 
who  abolished  the  canteen,  the  women  who  wear 
aigrettes.  After  that  I  should  destroy  all  possibilities 
of  graft." 

"How?"  asked  Barbara. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "the  simplest  way  in  the  world — 
legalize  the  business  that  now  pays  for  protection. 
There  would  be  no  more  of  them  than  there  are  now, 
and  they  could  be  regulated  and  kept  to  confined 
limits  of  cities.  Don't  blame  the  police  for  graft: 

240 


THE  PENALTY  241 

blame  all  who  believe  that  human  nature  can  be 
abolished  by  law.  But,"  and  this  time  his  whole  face 
smiled,  "I  shall  never  be  dictator.  The  thing  to  do 
is  to  start  a  new  country,  and  make  no  mistakes." 

And  he  proceeded,  sometimes  seriously  but  for  the 
most  part  whimsically,  to  outline  his  model  republic, 
while  Barbara  worked  and  listened,  sometimes  with 
amusement,  sometimes  with  a  sense  of  being  uplifted 
and  thrilled  by  the  man's  plausible  originality. 
Since  she  had  but  the  vaguest  recollection  of  history, 
and  none  whatever  of  economics,  it  was  easy  for  the 
man  to  play  the  constructive  statesman.  Nor  were 
his  schemes  always  foolish  and  illogical,  since  the  book 
of  human  nature  had  been  always  in  his  library,  and 
of  all  its  volumes  had  been  most  often  read. 

"Ah!"  said  the  legless  man  at  last,  "if  I  were 
younger,  and  whole!" 

Whenever  he  referred  to  his  maimed  condition 
Barbara,  to  whom  it  was  no  longer  physically  shock- 
ing, was  uncomfortable  and  distressed,  changing  the 
subject  as  swiftly  as  might  be.  But  now,  stopping 
her  work  short  off,  her  hands  hanging  at  her  sides, 
she  began  to  speak  of  the  matter. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "it's  almost  life  and  death 
to  you — sometimes,  that  you'd  give  almost  anything, 
take  any  chance  to  be — the  way  you  were  meant  to  be. 
My  father  believes  that  some  day  people  can  have 
anything  that  they've  lost  restored — a  hand  or  an 
arm.  He's  made  experiments  along  those  lines  ever 
since  he  made  his  mistake  with  you,  and  it  all  works 


242  THE  PENALTY 

out  beautifully  with  monkeys  and  dogs  and  guinea- 
pigs  and  rabbits.  Just  now  he  is  in  Colorado  to  try 
it  on  a  man.  There's  a  man  out  there  in  jail  for  life, 
who  has  a  brother  that  lost  his  right  hand  in  some 
machinery.  The  well  brother  has  offered  to  let  father 
cut  off  his  hand,  and  graft  it  on  the  maimed  brother's 
wrist.  I've  just  had  a  letter — it's  been  done.  He 
thinks  it's  all  right,  but  he  can't  be  sure  yet.  Please 
don't  say  anything  about  it  because — well,  because 
people  are  still  queer  about  these  things.  In  the  old 
days  people  burned  the  best  doctors,  and  now  they 
want  to  lynch  vivisectors  and  almost  anybody  who's 
really  trying  to  make  health  more  or  less  contagious." 

"  Do  you  believe  I  could  be  made  whole?  "  exclaimed 
Blizzard,  his  eyes  glittering  as  with  a  sudden  hope. 
"My  God!  Even  if  they  weren't  much  use  to  me, 
I'd  give  my  soul  to  look  like  a  real  man — my  soul! 
Do  you  know  what  I'd  rather  do  than  anything  in 
this  whole  world — just  once?  I'd  rather  draw  myself 
to  my  full  height — just  once — than  be  Napoleon  Bo- 
naparte. If  all  the  treasure  in  this  city  were  mine  to 
give,  I'd  give  it  to  walk  the  length  of  a  city  block  on 
my  own  feet,  looking  down  at  the  people  instead  of 
always  up — always  up — until  the  leverage  of  your 
eyes  twists  the  back  of  your  brain  in  everlasting  tor- 
ment." 

"When  my  father  comes  back,"  said  Barbara 
quietly,  "talk  to  him.  And  if  only  it  can  be  done — 
why,  you'll  forgive  us,  won't  you,  for  all  the  suffer- 
ing you've  had  and  everything?" 


She  said  in  a  small,  surprised  voice, 
"Why,  it's  finished" 


THE  PENALTY  243 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  quickly.  "But  it  isn't  true — 
it  isn't  possible.  It  won't  work.  It's  against  ex- 
perience." 

"It  is  possible,"  said  Barbara  gently.  "That's  all 
I  know.  And  even  if — even  if  it  can't  be  done  yet 
awhile,  I  thought  it  would  comfort  you  to  think  that 
some  day — almost  surely " 

"You  are  always  thinking  of  my  comfort,"  he  cried. 
"In  this  pit  that  we  call  life,  you  are  an  angel  serene, 
blessed  and  blessing.  Oh,"  he  cried,  "what  would 
you  say  if  I  stood  before  you  on  my  own  feet,  and 
told  you — told  you — "  He  broke  off  short  and  hung 
his  head. 

Barbara  bit  her  lips  and  lifted  her  hands  with  a 
weary  gesture  to  resume  work.  But  the  bust  of  Bliz- 
zard was  a  live  thing,  and  seeing  anew  the  strength 
and  hellish  beauty  of  it,  suddenly  and  as  if  with  the 
eyes  of  a  stranger,  her  heart  seemed  to  leap  into  her 
throat,  her  whole  body  relaxed  once  more,  and  she 
said  in  a  small,  surprised  voice: 

"Why,  it's  finished!" 


XXXII 

UPON  Blizzard,  who  had  been  looking  forward  to 
many  mornings  during  which  he  should  unobtrusively 
advance  his  cause,  this  quiet  statement  fell  with  dis- 
turbing force.  It  meant  that  his  opportunities  for 
intimate  talks  had  come  to  a  sudden  and  most  un- 
prepared-for  end.  He  knew  that  Barbara  was  tired 
out  with  the  steady  grind  of  creation,  and  that  she 
had  been  going  through  an  equally  steady  grind  of 
discouragement  and  uncertainty.  He  believed  that 
she  would  make  no  delay  in  carrying  her  triumph  and 
her  trouble  out  of  the  heat-ridden  city,  to  cool  places, 
to  her  own  people.  He  believed,  not  that  she  would 
forget  him,  but  that,  free  from  his  influence,  she 
would  see  with  equal  vision  how  wide  the  gulf  be- 
tween them  really  was. 

He  had  made  a  slip  in  his  calculation.  He  had 
been  spreading  his  arts  thinly,  you  may  say,  to  cover 
what  he  supposed  was  to  have  been  a  much  longer 
period  of  time.  And  he  should  have  come  sooner 
and  with  all  his  strength  to  the  point  There  had 
been  moments  of  supreme  discouragement,  when,  if 
there  was  to  be  a  miracle  in  his  life,  he  should  have 
spoken.  There  were  to  be  no  more  of  those  golden 
moments.  She  would  close  the  studio,  go  away,  and 
return  by  way  of  exercise  and  fresh  air  to  a  sane  and 


THE  PENALTY  245 

normal  state  of  mind — a  state  ef  mind  in  which  such 
a  physical  and  moral  cripple  as  himself  could  have  no 
place  except  among  the  curiosities. 

She  stood  looking  steadily  at  the  head  which  had 
come  to  life  under  her  hands.  Her  eyelids  drooped 
heavily.  She  looked  almost  as  if  she  was  falling 
asleep. 

Buzzard  watched  her  as  a  cat  watches  a  mouse, 
not  knowing  what  was  best  for  him  to  dare.  Now 
he  was  for  pleading  his  cause  with  all  the  passion  that 
inspired  it;  now  for  boldly  claiming  her  as  the  expia- 
tion for  her  father's  fault;  and  now  he  was  for  pass- 
ing over  all  preliminaries  and  felling  her  with  a  blow 
of  his  fist. 

And  then  she  suddenly  turned  to  him,  and  smiled 
like  a  very  happy  and  very  tired  child.  "You've 
been  very  good  to  me,"  she  said,  "and  so  patient!  I 
don't  know  quite  how  to  thank  you.  I  owe  you  such 
a  lot." 

"Do  you?"  he  said,  his  hard  eyes  softening  and 
seeking  hers. 

She  nodded  slowly.  "Such  a  lot.  And  there's  no 
way  of  paying,  or  making  things  up  to  you,  is  there?  " 

"Only  one,"  he  said. 

There  was  quite  a  long  silence;  his  eyes,  flames  in 
them,  held  hers,  which  were  troubled  and  childlike, 
and  imbued  the  two  words  that  he  had  spoken  with 
an  unmistakable  intelligence. 

"Don't  let  me  go  utterly,"  he  said,  "and  slip  back 
into  the  pit.  You  have  finished  the  bust.  If  you 


246  THE  PENALTY 

wished  you  could  finish  the  man:  put  him  back  among 
the  good  angels.  ...  If  your  father  died  owing 
money,  you  couldn't  rest  until  you  had  paid  his 
debts.  ...  I  could  be  anything  you  wished.  And 
I  could  give  you  anything  that  you  wanted  in  this 
world.  There  is  nothing  I  couldn't  put  over — with 
you  at  my  side,  wishing  the  good  deed  done,  the 
great  deed — or " 

He  began  to  tremble  with  the  passion  that  was  in 
his  voice,  slipped  from  his  chair,  and  began  to  move 
slowly  toward  her  with  outstretched  arms,  upon  his 
stumps  of  legs. 

It  was  no  mirth  or  any  sense  of  the  ridiculous  that 
moved  Barbara,  but  fear,  disgust,  and  horror.  She 
backed  away  from  him,  laughing  hysterically.  But 
he,  whose  self-consciousness  in  her  sight  bordered 
upon  mania,  mistook  the  cause  of  her  laughter,  so 
that  a  kind  of  hell-born  fury  shook  him,  and  he  rushed 
at  her,  his  mouth  giving  out  horrible  and  inarticulate 
sounds.  And  in  those  lightning  moments  she  could 
move  neither  hand  nor  foot;  nor  could  she  cry  for 
help.  And  yet  she  realized,  as  in  some  nightmare, 
that  if  once  those  horrible  hairy  hands  closed  upon 
her  she  was  lost  utterly.  And  in  that  same  clear 
flash  of  reason  she  realized  that  for  whatever  might 
befall  she  had  herself  alone  to  blame.  She  had 
touched  pitch,  and  played  with  fire — and  all  that 
men  might  some  day  call  her  great. 

The  speed  for  which  the  fury  of  the  legless  man 
called  was  more  than  the  stumps  of  his  legs  could 


In  that  instant  the  legless  man  over- 
reached himself  and  fell  heavily 


,,tyfoch— 1,-. 


THE  PENALTY  247 

furnish.  He  was  like  a  man,  thigh-deep  in  water, 
who  attempts  to  run  at  top  speed.  Yet  his  hands 
were  within  inches  of  her  dress,  when  daring  and 
nerve  at  last  thrilled  through  Barbara,  and  returned 
her  muscles  into  the  keeping  of  her  mind.  She  darted 
backward  and  to  one  side.  In  that  instant  the 
legless  man  overreached  himself  and  fell  heavily. 
Here  seemed  an  inestimable  advantage  for  Barbara, 
and  yet  the  great  body,  shaken  with  curses  and  al- 
ready rising  to  its  stumps,  was  between  her  and  the 
door. 


XXXIII 

FOR  once  the  legless  man  had  been  deserted  by  the 
power  of  cool  reasoning.  And  his  fury  was  of  a  kind 
that  could  not  wait  for  satisfaction.  He  was  more 
like  a  mad  dog  than  a  man.  And  this,  although  it 
added  to  the  horror  of  Barbara's  situation,  proved  her 
salvation. 

Occupying  a  point  from  which  he  could  head  off 
her  escape  by  either  of  the  studio  doors,  he  abandoned 
this,  and  attempted  to  match  the  stumps  of  his  legs 
against  her  swift  young  feet.  And  must  have  over- 
come the  disparity,  but  that  in  the  lightning  instinct 
of  self-preservation  she  overturned  a  table  between 
them,  and  during  the  moments  thus  gained  dashed 
into  her  dressing-room  and  locked  the  door  behind  her. 

Blizzard  vented  his  rage  upon  the  locked  door, 
splintering  its  panels  with  bleeding  fists;  but  in  the 
meanwhile  his  quarry  had  escaped  him,  and  was  al- 
ready in  the  street  walking  swiftly  toward  Washing- 
ton Square.  He  leaned  at  last  from  a  window,  and 
saw  her  going.  And  in  his  heart  shame  gradually 
took  the  place  of  fury.  Why,  when  she  laughed  at 
him,  had  he  not  been  able  to  dissemble  his  emotions 
for  a  few  seconds?  to  mask  his  dreadfulness?  For 
then,  surely,  he  must  have  got  her  in  his  power.  He 
should  have  hung  his  head  when  she  laughed,  begged 

248 


Barbara  .  .  .  dashed  into  her  dress- 
ing-room and  locked  the  door  be- 
hind her 


THE  PENALTY  249 

her  to  forgive  him  for  daring  to  lift  his  thoughts  to 
her;  and  begged  her  as  a  token  of  forgiveness  to 
shake  hands  with  him.  Her  hand  once  clasped  in 
his 

Well,  he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself.  Perhaps  he 
had  frightened  her  utterly  beyond  the  reach  even  of 
his  long  arm.  Fear  would  carry  her  out  of  the  city, 
out  of  the  State,  out  of  the  country,  perhaps.  To 
prevent  the  least  of  these  contingencies  he  must  act 
swiftly  and  with  daring  wisdom. 

He  passed  into  the  studio,  glanced  upward  at  the 
bust  of  himself,  stopped,  and  looked  about  for  some- 
thing heavy  with  which  to  destroy  it.  Later  he  would 
tell  her  that  he  had  done  so,  and  let  that  knowledge 
be  the  beginning  of  her  torment. 

But  the  thing  that  he  planned  to  destroy  looked 
him  in  the  eye,  smiling.  The  thing  smiled  in  the  full 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  the  fact  that  it  had 
chosen  evil,  the  fact  that  it  was  lost  forever.  It  was 
no  contagious  smile,  but  a  smile  aloof  and  dreadful. 
So  a  man,  impaled,  may  smile,  when  agony  has  passed 
beyond  the  usual  human  passions — and  even  so  the 
legless  man  smiled  upward  at  the  smiling  bust  of 
himself.  And  he  found  that  he  could  not  destroy  the 
bust:  for  the  act  would  have  about  it  too  ominous  a 
flavor  of  self-destruction. 

He  caught  up  his  crutches,  his  little  hand-organ, 
and  hurried  from  the  studio.  By  now  Barbara  must 
be  well  on  her  way  up-town.  He  entered  a  public 
telephone  station  and  gave  the  number  of  her  house. 


250  THE  PENALTY 

He  asked  to  speak  with  Miss  Marion  O'Brien,  and 
when  after  an  interval  he  heard  the  voice  of  Barbara's 
maid  in  his  ear,  he  said:  "She's  been  frightened.  Let 
me  know  what  she's  going  to  do  as  soon  as  you  know. 
Don't  use  the  house  'phone.  Slip  out  to  a  pay  station. 
I  must  know  when  she's  going  and  where,  and  if  she 
says  for  how  long."  He  hung  up  the  receiver,  and 
hurried  off. 

An  hour  later  Barbara's  maid  telephoned  him  the 
required  news,  but  all  of  it  that  mattered  was  that 
Barbara  was  not  going  out  of  town  until  the  next  day. 
There  was  a  whole  afternoon  and  night  in  which  to 
act. 

The  legless  man  sank  at  once  into  deep  and  swift 
thought.  And  ten  minutes  later  he  had  abandoned 
all  idea  of  kidnapping  Barbara  for  the  present.  Cer- 
tain dangers  of  so  doing  seemed  insurmountable.  He 
must  possess  his  soul  in  patience,  and  in  the  mean- 
while discount,  if  possible,  the  fright  that  he  had 
given  her.  To  this  end  he  wrote  the  following  letter: 

"It  wasn't  your  fault  that  I  lifted  my  eyes  to  you, 
and  hoped  that  you  would  lower  yours  to  me.  But 
now  I  know  what  a  fool  I  have  been.  I  forgive  you 
for  laughing  at  me,  though  at  the  time  it  made  me 
mad  like  a  dog,  and  I  only  wanted  to  hurt  the  woman 
I  love.  I  won't  trouble  you  any  more,  ever.  Indeed 
I  am  too  ashamed  and  humbled  ever  to  wish  to  see 
you  again.  Only  please  don't  hate  me.  If  I  had 
any  good  sides,  please  remember  them.  Some  time 
you  will  hear  of  me  again;  but  never  again  from  me. 


THE  PENALTY  251 

I  have  work  to  do,  but  I  have  given  my  time  to 
dreaming. 

"When  your  father  comes  back  will  you  ask  him 
to  let  me  know  if  he  will  see  me?  You  thought  he 
could  do  something  for  me — or  hold  out  some  hope. 
I  would  risk  my  life  itself  to  be  whole,  even  if  I  could 
never  be  very  active.  And  science  is  so  wonderful; 
and  I  know  your  father  would  like  to  help  me  if  he 
could. 

"If  you  don't  think  I  am  being  punished  for  threat- 
ening you,  and  going  crazy,  you  don't  know  anything 
about  the  unhappiest  beast  in  this  world.  But  it  is 
terrible  for  a  cripple  when  the  one  person  he  looks  up 
to  laughs  at  him.  I  have  a  thick  skin;  but  that 
burnt  through  it  like  acid." 

The  messenger  who  carried  the  letter  to  Barbara 
brought  him  her  answer: 

"I  will  give  your  message  to  my  father.  You  are 
quite  wrong  about  the  laughing.  I  didn't  laugh  at 
you  or  anything  about  you.  I  laughed  because  I 
was  nervous  and  frightened.  But  it  can't  matter 
much  one  way  or  the  other.  I  am  sorry  that  you  have 
been  hurt  twice  by  my  family.  But  the  second  hurt 
is  not  our  fault.  And  I  do  not  see  that  there  is  any- 
thing to  be  done  about  it.  As  for  the  first,  my  father 
would  end  his  days  in  peace  if  he  could  make  you 
whole.  I  shall  hope  to  hear  nothing  but  good  of 
you  in  the  future." 

The  shame  and  remorse  to  which  Blizzard  pre- 
tended, Barbara  actually  felt.  All  her  friendships 


252  THE  PENALTY 

with  men  had  been  pursued  by  disasters  of  some  sort 
or  other.  But  her  most  disastrous  experiment  in 
friendship  had  been  with  Blizzard.  She  had  been 
bluntly  told  by  truth-speaking  persons  that  he  was 
not  a  fit  acquaintance  for  her.  His  own  face  had 
warned  her.  But  she  had  persisted  in  meeting  him 
without  precautions,  in  treating  him  like  an  equal,  in 
overcoming  her  natural  and  just  repugnance  to  him, 
and  in  calling  him  her  friend.  It  was  humiliating  for 
her  to  realize  and  acknowledge  that  she  had  made  a 
fool  of  herself.  It  was  worse  to  remember  the  look 
in  his  face,  during  those  last  awful  moments  in  the 
studio.  Even  if  the  bust  she  had  made  of  him  was  a 
great  work  of  art,  she  had  paid  too  high  for  the  priv- 
ilege of  making  it. 


XXXIV 

DR.  FERRIS  was  delighted  to  learn  that  Barbara  had 
left  town.  Her  meetings  with  Blizzard  had  been  hor- 
ribly on  his  mind  and  conscience.  He  had  dreaded 
some  vague  calamity — some  intangible  darkening  of 
his  darling's  soul. 

A  few  days  hi  the  country  had  worked  wonders  for 
her.  Her  skin  had  browned  a  little,  and  her  cheeks 
were  crimson.  But  dearer  to  the  paternal  heart  than 
these  evidences  of  good  health  was  the  fact  that  she 
seemed  unusually  glad  to  see  him.  She  seemed  to 
him  to  have  lost  a  world  of  independence  and  self- 
reliance,  to  be  inclined  to  accept  his  judgments  with- 
out dispute.  She  seemed  more  womanly  and  more 
daughterly,  more  normal  and  more  beautiful. 

For  a  man  with  a  heavy  weight  always  upon  his 
conscience,  the  excellent  surgeon  found  himself  won- 
derfully at  peace  with  the  world  and  its  institutions. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  the  hand  which  he  had  come 
from  grafting  was  going  to  live  and  be  of  some  use  to 
its  new  owner.  His  mail  was  heavy  with  approba- 
tion. And  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  path  which  he 
had  discovered  had  no  ending. 

"In  a  hundred  years,  Barbara,"  he  said,  "it  will 
be  possible  to  replace  anything  that  the  body  has 
lost,  or  that  has  become  diseased  and  useless  or  a 

253 


254  THE  PENALTY 

menace — not  the  heart,  perhaps,  nor  the  brain — but 
anything  else.  What  I  have  done  clumsily  others 
will  do  to  perfection." 

"What  are  the  chances  for  Blizzard?" 

"Even,"  said  the  surgeon.  "They  would  be  more 
favorable  if  he  had  not  lost  his  legs  so  long  ago.  At 
the  worst  the  experiment  wouldn't  kill  him.  He 
would  merely  have  undergone  a  useless  operation. 
At  the  best  he  would  be  able  to  walk,  run  perhaps, 
and  look  like  a  whole  man.  If  anything  is  to  be  done 
for  hun,  the  time  has  come.  He  has  only  to  tell  me 
to  go  ahead." 

"I  think  he'll  do  that,"  said  Barbara.  "But 
there's  one  thing  I  don't  understand,"  and  she  smiled; 
"who  is  to  supply  the  spare  legs?" 

"That's  the  least  of  all  the  difficulties,"  said  her 
father,  "now  that  ways  of  keeping  tissues  alive  have 
been  discovered  and  proved.  In  time  there  will  be 
storages  from  which  any  part  of  the  human  body 
may  be  obtained  on  short  notice  and  in  perfect  con- 
dition for  grafting.  Just  now  the  idea  is  horrible  to 
ignorant  people,  but  the  faith  will  spread.  Only 
wait  till  we  have  made  a  few  old  people  young — for 
that  will  come,  too,  with  the  new  surgery." 

"You  will  be  glad,"  said  Barbara,  "to  hear  that  I 
have  severed  friendly  relations  with  Mr.  Blizzard. 
He  behaved  in  the  end  pretty  much  as  you  all  feared 
he  would." 

And  she  told  her  father,  briefly,  and  somewhat 
shamefacedly,  all  that  had  happened  in  the  studio. 


THE  PENALTY  255 

"He  thought  I  was  laughing  at  him,"  she  said. 
"Of  course  I  wasn't.  And  he  came  at  me.  Do  you 
remember  when  poor  old  Rose  went  mad,  and  tried 
to  get  at  us  through  the  bars  of  the  kennel?  Bliz- 
zard looked  like  that — like  a  mad  dog."  She  shud- 
dered. 

The  surgeon's  high  spirits  were  dashed  as  with  cold 
water. 

"He  ought  not  to  be  helped,"  said  Barbara;  "he 
ought  to  be  shot,  as  Rose  was." 

But  Dr.  Ferris  shook  his  head  gravely.  "If  he  is 
that  sort  of  a  man,"  he  said,  "who  made  him  so? 
Who  took  the  joy  of  life  from  him?  Barbara,  my 
dear,  there  is  nothing  that  man  could  do  that  I 
couldn't  forgive." 

"And  I  think  that  your  conscience  is  sick,"  said 
Barbara.  "I  used  to  think  as  you  think.  But  if  you 
had  seen  his  face  that  day!  .  .  .  The  one  great  mis- 
take you  have  made  has  ruined  not  his  life,  but  yours. 
If  he  had  had  the  right  stuff  in  him,  calamity  would 
not  have  broken  him!  It  would  have  made  him. 
Give  him  a  new  pair  of  legs,  if  you  can;  and  forget 
about  him,  as  I  shall.  When  you  first  told  me  about 
him,  I  thought  we  owed  him  anything  he  chose  to 
ask.  At  one  time  I  thought  that  if  he  wished  it,  it 
would  be  right  for  me  to  marry  him." 

"Barbara!" 

"Yes,  I  did — I  thought  it  strongly.  Shows  what 
a  fool  a  girl  who's  naturally  foolish  can  make  of  her- 
self! Why,  father,  what  if  he  has  suffered  through 


256  THE  PENALTY 

your  mistake?  That  mistake  turned  your  thoughts 
to  the  new  surgery — and  for  the  one  miserable  man 
that  you  have  hurt  you  will  have  given  the  wonder  of 
hope  to  the  whole  of  mankind." 

She  slid  her  hand  under  her  father's  arm. 

"Let's  potter  'round  the  gardens,"  she  said,  "and 
forget  our  troubles.  It's  bully  to  have  you  back. 
There's  not  much  doing  in  the  floral  line.  The 
summer  sun  in  Westchester  doesn't  vary  from  year 
to  year.  But  there  are  lots  of  green  things  that  smell 
good,  and  the  asters  and  dahlias  are  making  the  most 
extraordinary  promises  of  what  they  are  going  to  do 
by  and  by." 

They  passed  out  of  the  house  and  by  marble  steps 
into  the  first  and  most  formal  of  their  many  gardens, 
and  so  down  through  the  other  gardens,  terrace  below 
terrace,  to  the  lake. 

The  water  was  so  still  as  to  suggest  a  solid  rather 
than  a  liquid;  to  Jthe  west  shadowy  mountains  of 
cloud  charged  with  thunder  swelled  toward  the  zenith. 
The  long  midsummer  drought  was  coming  to  an  end, 
and  all  birds  and  insects  were  silent,  as  if  tired  of 
complaining.  Across  the  lake  one  maple,  turned  pre- 
maturely scarlet,  brought  out  the  soft  greens  of  the 
woods  with  an  astounding  accent.  Directly  in  front 
of  this  flaming  tree,  a  snow-white  heron  stood  motion- 
less upon  a  gray  rock. 

To  Barbara  it  seemed  on  that  day  that  "Clovelly" 
was  the  loveliest  place  in  all  the  world,  and  her  father, 
who  had  fashioned  it  out  of  rough  farm  lands,  one  of 


k.%  ^Hfc^  T^^.  ^^  ^ 


They  passed  out  of  the  house  and  by 
marble  steps  into  the  first  and  most 
formal  of  their  many  gardens 


THE  PENALTY  257 

the  world's  most  charming  artists.  "Why  paint  with 
oils,  when  you  can  draw  with  trees  and  flowers  and 
grass  and  water?  "  she  asked  herself. 

"In  the  time  it  took  me  to  do  Blizzard's  bust,"  she 
said,  "I  could  have  plantefl  millions  of  flowers  and 
seen  them  bloom." 

"At  least,"  said  her  father,  "you  can  finish  a  bust, 
but  a  garden  that  is  finished  isn't  a  garden.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"The  bust?  Why,  sometimes  I  think  I'll  just  leave 
it  in  the  studio,  and  let  it  survive  or  perish.  Some- 
times I  want  to  take  a  hammer  and  smash  it  to 
pieces." 

"It  didn't  come  out  as  well  as  you  hoped?" 

"Of  course  not.  Does  anything  ever?  But  it's 
the  best  that  I  can  do.  And  I  shall  never  do  any- 
thing better." 

"Nonsense." 

"I  shall  never  even  try.  I  want  to  recover  all  the 
things  I've  thrown  away,  and  put  them  back  in  my 
head  and  heart  where  they  belong,  and  just  live." 

"Well,"  said  her  father,  smiling,  "if  you  feel  that 
way,  why  that's  a  good  way  to  feel.  But  I'm  afraid 
art  is  stronger  in  you  than  you  think.  Just  now 
you're  tired  and  disillusionized.  In  a  month  you'll 
be  making  sketches  for  some  monumental  opus." 

"If  I  do,"  said  Barbara,  "it  will  be  executed  here 
at  Clovelly.  I  never  want  to  leave  Clovelly.  I  feel 
safe  here,  safe  from  myself  and  other  people.  I 
think,"  and  she  smiled  whimsically,  "that  I  should 


258  THE  PENALTY 

almost  like  to  settle  down  and  make  you  a  good 
daughter." 

"A  good  daughter,"  said  the  surgeon,  "marries; 
and  her  father  builds  a  beautiful  house  for  her,  just 
over  the  hill  from  his  own — remember  the  little  valley 
where  we  found  all  the  fringed  gentian  one  year? — 
and  the  shortest  cut  between  the  two  houses  is  worn 
bare  and  packed  hard  by  the  feet  of  grandchildren. 
Good  Lord,  my  dear,  what's  the  good  of  art,  what's 
the  good  of  science?  I  would  rather  have  watched 
you  grow  up  than  have  made  the  Winged  Victory,  or 
discovered  the  circulation  of  the  blood.  Come  now, 
Barbs,  tell  me,  who's  the  young  man?" 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  told  him  of  the 
wild  impulsiveness  and  the  shocking  brevity  of  her 
affections  for  various  members  of  his  sex;  naming  no 
names  she  explained  to  him  with  much  self-abase- 
ment (and  a  little  amusement)  that  she  was  no  good. 
"A  nice  wife  I'd  make!"  she  concluded. 

But  her  father  only  laughed.  "The  only  abnormal 
thing  about  you,"  he  said,  "is  that  you  tell  the  truth. 
The  average  girl  shows  men  more  attentions  than  men 
show  her.  I  don't  mean  that  she  demonstrates  her 
attentions;  but  that  she  feels  them  in  her  heart.  To 
be  absolutely  the  first  in  a  woman's  heart  a  man  must 
catch  her  when  she's  about  three  months  old." 

"But  a  girl,"  said  Barbara,  "who  thinks  she's  sure 
and  then  finds  she  isn't,  hurts  the  people  she's  fondest 
of.  In  extreme  cases  she  breaks  hearts  and  spoils 
lives." 


'What  is  Wilmot  doing  with  himself 
these  days?"  "He  went  away," 
said  Barbara,  her  eyes  troubled. 


THE  PENALTY  259 

"Hearts,"  said  her  father,  "that  can  be  broken  are 
very  weak.  Lives  that  can  be  spoiled  by  disappoint- 
ment and  injured  pride  aren't  worth  preserving.  If 
you  have  nothing  more  serious  on  your  conscience 
than  having,  in  all  good  faith,  encouraged  a  few 
young  men,  found  that  you  were  wrong,  and  sent 
them  away  with  bees  in  their  bonnets,  I'm  sure  I 
envy  you." 

Barbara  simply  shook  her  head. 

"When  you  do  find  the  right  man,  Barbara,  you'll 
make  up  to  him  with  showers  of  blessings  for  what- 
ever cold  rains  you've  shed  on  others.  .  .  .  What  is 
Wilmot  doing  with  himself  these  days?  " 

"He  went  away,"  said  Barbara,  and  she  sat  look- 
ing steadily  across  the  lake,  her  chin  on  her  hand, 
her  eyes  troubled. 


XXXV 

IN  many  ways  the  life  which  Barbara  led  at  Clovelly 
was  calculated  to  rest  her  mind.  She  developed  a 
passion  for  exercise,  and  when  night  came  was  too 
full  of  tired  good  health  to  read  or  talk.  Since  the 
estate  was  to  be  hers  one  day,  she  found  the  wish  to 
know  her  way  intimately  about  it,  and  since  there 
were  three  thousand  acres,  for  the  most  part  thick 
forests  spread  over  rocky  hills,  she  could  contemplate 
weeks  of  delightful  explorations.  To  discover  ponds, 
brooks,  and  caves  that  belong  to  other  people  has  its 
delights,  but  to  go  daily  up  and  down  a  lovely  coun- 
try discovering  lovely  things  that  belong  to  yourself 
is  perhaps  the  most  delightful  way  of  passing  time 
that  has  been  vouchsafed  to  any  one. 

On  these  explorations  Barbara's  chosen  companion 
was  Bubbles.  He  was  no  longer  a  mere  Buttons: 
her  interest  and  belief  in  the  child  had  passed  beyond 
the  wish  to  see  him  develop  into  a  good  servant.  She 
wished  to  make  something  better  of  him — or  if  there 
is  nothing  better  than  a  good  servant,  something 
more  showy  and  ornamental. 

He  was  sharp  as  a  needle;  and  he  was  honest.  He 
was  not  too  old  to  be  moulded  by  good  influences, 
schools,  and  associations  into  a  man  with  proper 

260 


THE  PENALTY  261 

manners,  and  an  upper-class  command  of  the  Eng- 
lish language.  He  should  go  to  one  of  the  New 
England  church  schools,  later  to  college,  then  he 
should  choose  a  career  for  himself  and  be  helped  into 
harness.  So  she  planned  his  future.  In  the  mean- 
while she  wished  to  see  the  thin,  spindly  body  catch 
up  with  the  big,  intelligent  head.  Although  his 
muscles  were  tough  and  wiry  he  had  a  delicate  look 
which  troubled  her,  and  a  cough  which  to  her  inex- 
perienced and  anxious  ears  suggested  a  consumptive 
tendency. 

Dr.  Ferris  laughed  at  this,  but  to  satisfy  her  he 
gave  the  boy  a  thorough  questioning  and  a  thorough 
looking  over.  "Any  of  your  family  consumptives, 
Bubbles?" 

"Don't  think  so,  sir." 

"Well,  you're  not.    Heart  and  lungs  are  sound." 

"Miss  Barbara  says  she  doesn't  like  my  cough." 

"Yes,"  said  the  surgeon,  "it  worries  her  quite  a 
good  deal.  And  I  advise  you  to  stop  it." 

"But  my  throat  gets  tickling,  and — — " 

"Your  throat  gets  tickling  because  you  are  an 
inveterate  cigarette  smoker.  And  that's  the  reason 
why  you  are  undersized  and  under-nourished.  How 
long  have  you  smoked?" 

"I  don't  remember  when  I  didn't." 

"Can't  you  stop?" 

"I  stopped  once  for  two  days,  and  then  I  took  a 
pack  of  smokers  that  wasn't  mine.  That  was  about 
the  only  thing  I  ever  stole." 


262  THE  PENALTY 

"But  if  you  gave  me  your  word  not  to  smoke  any 
more  till  you're  twenty-one,  couldn't  you  keep  that 
promise?" 

"I  could  try,"  said  Bubbles,  evincing  very  little 
confidence. 

"Will  you  try?"  said  the  surgeon.  "Hello,  what's 
this?" 

The  boy  in  lifting  his  left  arm  had  disclosed  a  dark- 
brown  birthmark  shaped  like  the  new  moon.  All 
amusement  had  gone  out  of  Dr.  Ferris's  eyes;  and  he 
had  that  look  of  tragic  memories  that  so  often  put  an 
end  to  his  smiling  and  optimistic  moods. 

"Do  you  remember  your  father?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Mother  living?" 

Bubbles  hesitated.  "She's  in  an  asylum.  She's 
crazy." 

"What  was  your  father's  name?" 

Bubbles  shook  his  head. 

The  surgeon  considered  for  a  moment.  "Well,"  he 
said,  at  length,  and  once  more  smiling,  "put  your 
clothes  on,  and  then  go  to  Miss  Ferris  and  promise 
her  that  you  won't  smoke  any  more.  What  asylum 
did  you  say  your  mother  was  in?" 

"Ottawan." 

"Do  you  ever  see  her?" 

"No,  sir.    She  don't  like  to  see  me." 

"What  is  her  name,  Bubbles?" 

"Jenny  Ward." 

Dr.  Ferris  ordered  a  car,  and  in  less  than  two  hours 


THE  PENALTY  263 

he  was  talking  with  the  superintendent  of  Ottawan 
about  the  patient,  Jenny  Ward. 

"The  boy,"  he  was  saying,  "is  a  protege  of  my 
daughter's.  She  means  to  educate  him,  and  we  are 
naturally  interested  in  his  antecedents.  I  wonder  if 
she  has  any  lucid  recollection  of  the  father?" 

"When  she  first  came  she  seemed  to  have  lucid 
moments.  Even  now  she  never  makes  trouble  for 
any  one,  except  that  sometimes  she  wakes  in  the 
night  screaming.  She  has  been  very  pretty." 

"H'm!"  said  Dr.  Ferris.  "You  think  she  couldn't 
tell  me  anything  about  the  boy's  father?" 

"I  know  she  couldn't.  When  she  was  examined 
after  being  committed,  it  was  found  that  her  tongue 
had  been  cut  out." 

The  woman,  upon  being  visited,  proved  a  meek, 
gentle,  pathetic  creature,  eager  to  please.  As  the 
superintendent  reported,  she  had  been  very  pretty. 
She  would  have  been  pretty  still,  but  for  her  utterly 
vacant  look. 

The  doctor  questioned  her,  but  she  made  no  effort, 
it  seemed,  even  to  understand  the  questions.  Given 
a  pencil  and  paper  she  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in 
making  dots,  dashes,  and  scrawls;  but  she  made  no 
mark  that  hi  any  way  represented  a  letter  of  the 
alphabet.  Confronted  with  a  printed  page,  she 
thrust  it  aside. 

"Very  likely  she  never  could  read  or  write,"  said  the 
superintendent;  "usually  when  you  give  'em  a  pencil 
they  make  letters  by  an  act  of  muscular  memory." 


264  THE  PENALTY 

In  the  corridor  outside  the  woman's  room,  they  en- 
countered one  of  those  nurses  who  are  used  in  man- 
aging the  violent  insane.  He  was  a  huge  fellow,  with 
a  dark,  strong,  and  somewhat  forbidding  face.  He 
nodded  to  the  superintendent  and  passed.  Dr.  Fer- 
ris looked  after  him  down  the  corridor,  had  a  sudden 
thought,  and  communicated  it  to  his  host  in  a  quick 
undertone. 

"I  say,  Gyles!    Look  here  a  moment." 

The  huge  nurse  turned  on  his  heel,  and  came  tower- 
ing back  to  them. 

"Have  you  ever  assisted  in  looking  after  the 
woman  Jenny  Ward?"  and  he  pointed  toward  the 
door  of  her  room. 

"No,  sir." 

"Dr.  Ferris  wishes  to  try  an  experiment." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"He  wishes  you  to  throw  open  the  door  of  her 
room,  and  to  enter  quickly — upon  your  knees." 

"On  my  knees?" 

"Yes." 

"All  right,  sir."  The  man  shrugged  his  big  shoul- 
ders, and,  his  face  sullen  and  annoyed,  knelt  at  the 
door  of  Jenny  Ward's  room,  unlocked  it,  flung  it 
open,  and  entered  quickly. 

Over  his  head  the  doctors  saw  an  expression  of  fear, 
almost  unearthly,  come  over  the  woman's  face.  And 
she  filled  her  room  and  the  corridor  without  with  a 
hoarse  and  horrible  screaming. 

Instantly  the  big  nurse  rose  to  his  feet,  and  came 


THE  PENALTY  265 

out  of  the  room.    His  face  was  passionately  angry. 

And  he  said: 

"It's  a  shame  to  frighten  her  like  that." 

The  superintendent's  eyes  fell  before  the  glare  in 

those  of  the  employee,  and  he  murmured  something 

about  "necessary  experiment — had  to  be  done." 


XXXVI 

"THERE'S  no  room  for  doubt  in  my  mind,"  said  Dr. 
Ferris.  "The  coincidence  of  the  birthmarks,  most 
unusual  in  shape  and  texture,  the  poor  woman's  be- 
havior at  sight  of  a  man  who  at  first  glance  appeared 
to  be  without  legs " 

"Yes,"  said  Barbara,  "but  I  go  more  on  a  cer- 
tain expression  that  Bubbles  sometimes  has  and  that 
makes  him  look  like  his  father.  You  see,  I've  done 
both  their  heads,  and  studied  them  closer  than  any- 
body else." 

"Do  you  suppose  the  boy  knows?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  think  not.  He's  too — 
too  decent.  If  he  thought  that  Blizzard  was  his 
father,  he  wouldn't  say  the  things  that  I  have  heard 
him  say  about  him.  He's  the  most  loyal  child." 

"Do  you  suppose  Blizzard  knows?" 

"Why,  of  course.  A  man  could  hardly  have  a  son 
without  knowing  him — especially  a  man  who  lives 
with  his  ears  to  the  ground  and  his  mind  in  touch 
with  everything  in  the  city." 

Dr.  Ferris  smiled  a  little.  "Well,"  he  said,  "shall 
we  tell  Bubbles?" 

"Why  should  we?  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  told  out 
of  a  clear  sky  that  I  had  such  and  such  a  father.  It 
doesn't  seem  in  the  least  necessary." 

266 


THE  PENALTY  267 

But  before  the  day  was  out  Barbara  thought  best 
to  tell  Bubbles.  He  came  to  her,  with  a  slightly  im- 
portant air,  which  he  did  his  best  to  conceal,  and  said 
that  he  wished  to  go  to  the  city  for  a  few  days,  on 
business. 

"Sure  the  business  isn't  free  untrammelled  smok- 
ing?" 

Bubbles  was  offended.  "If  I  hadn't  given  you  my 
word,"  he  said,  "you  might  think  that.  I  told  you 
when  we  came  that  I  might  have  to  go  back  any  time 
on  business.  I  got  to  go.  Honest,  Miss  Barbara." 

"Well,  that  settles  it,  Bubbles.  But  don't  you 
think  as  long  as  I'm  trying  to  give  you  some  of  the 
things  you've  missed,  that  you  might  take  me  a  little 
more  into  your  confidence?  " 

She  maintained  a  discreet  and  serious  countenance, 
although  she  wished  very  much  to  laugh. 

The  boy  studied  her  face  gravely  with  grave  eyes. 
"The  ABC  of  my  business,"  he  said  presently,  "is 
knowing  who  to  trust.  I  know  you  won't  blab,  Miss 
Barbara,  'r  else  I  wouldn't  tell  you.  There's  a  so- 
ciety in  New  York  City  for  putting  down  grafts  and 
crimes.  There's  a  rich  man  back  of  it.  And  there's 
more  kinds  o'  people  working  for  it  than  you'd  guess 
in  a  year.  There's  even  policemen  workin'  for  it " 

"But  it's  their  business  to  put  down  crime." 

Bubbles  shook  his  head  sadly.  "The  chief  busi- 
ness of  the  society  is  to  put  down  police  graft  in  crime," 
he  said.  "  But  there's  heaps  o'  side  businesses.  Harry 
West,  he's  one  of  us.  He's  way  high  up.  I'm  way 


268  THE  PENALTY 

low  down.  But  when  I'm  called  to  do  what  I  can, 
I  got  to  do  it.  There's  one  member  younger'n  me. 
And  there's  Fifth  Avenue  swells  belongs,  and  waiters, 
and  druggists,  and  bootblacks,  and  men  in  hardware 
stores,  and  barkeepers " 

"What  sort  of  work  do  you  have  to  do?" 

"To  go  places  and  find  out  things." 

"Why,  then  you're  a  detective,  Bubbles." 

A  look  of  contempt  swept  into  the  child's  face. 
"Detectives  is  in  business,"  he  said,  "for  what  they 
can  get  out  of  it.  We're  in  it  because  the  house  we 
live  in  is  dirty  and  full  of  rats,  and  we  want  to  make 
it  clean." 

The  boy  had  raised  his  voice  a  little,  and  Barbara 
found  herself  thrilling  to  it. 

"But,  Bubbles,"  she  objected,  "you  can't  go  to 
school  and  college  and  keep  up  this  work  at  the  same 
time." 

"If  I  get  education,"  said  Bubbles,  "it's  so's  to  be 
fitter  for  the  work  when  I  come  out.  But  I  can't 
give  the  work  up  till  the  job  I'm  on  is  finished.  It 
wouldn't  be  square." 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  job?" 

"I'm  one  o'  them  that's  helpin'  to  get  the  old  un 
where  he's  wanted." 

"What  old  one?" 

"Blizzard." 

Barbara  was  very  much  taken  aback.  "The  man 
I  made  the  bust  of?  " 

"We  can  send  him  to  the  chair  any  time.    But 


THE  PENALTY  269 

what's  the  use?  He  knows  things  that  we  got  to 
know  before  we  pass  him  up." 

"But,  Bubbles,  how  can  you  help?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  little.  I  can  get  into  little  places.  They 
wouldn't  want  me  if  I  weren't  of  use." 

"But  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  your  running  down 
Buzzard,  Bubbles." 

"Why  not,  Miss  Barbara?  There's  no  one  in  the 
city  that's  needed  as  much  as  him." 

"Aside  from  that,  Bubbles — I'm  willing  to  grant 
that — there's  a  reason  why  I  think  you  should  have 
nothing  to  do  with  running  him  down." 

"It's  got  to  be  an  awful  good  one,  Miss  Barbara — 
not  just  good  to  you,  and  maybe  to  me,  but  to  men 
higher  up." 

"I  think  it  would  be  good  enough  for  the  very 
highest  up,  Bubbles.  Will  you  take  my  word  for  it?  " 

"Yes,  Miss  Barbara.  But  they  won't  take  my 
word  for  your  word." 

"No,"  she  said,  "of  course  not." 

She  considered  for  a  few  moments.  Then  she  said: 
"Bubbles,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  my  reason.  I  hope 
I'm  not  doing  wrong.  It's  a  serious  thing  for  me  to 
tell  you  and  for  you  to  know.  There  is  very  little 
doubt  but  that  Blizzard  is  your  father." 

"Say  that  again,  please,"  said  Bubbles. 

"Blizzard  is  probably  your  father." 

Bubbles  took  the  news  very  coolly.  His  eyes 
sparkled;  but  he  made  no  exclamations  of  surprise 
or  chagrin.  Instead  he  said:  "That  accounts  for  it." 


270  THE  PENALTY 

"Accounts  for  what?" 

"Oncet  he  caught  me  in  his  house.  He  said  the 
next  time  he'd  skin  me  alive.  If  I  hadn't  been  his 
son  he'd  a  skun  me  that  time.  Do  you  get  me,  Miss 
Barbara?  He's  my  father,  sure.  But — "  Now  cha- 
grin, wonder,  and  perplexity  were  written  in  Bubbles's 
face.  "Why,"  he  said,  "it  makes  everything  dif- 
ferent. He  never  done  anything  for  me;  but  if  he's 
my  father " 

"You  can't  very  well  spy  on  him,  can  you,  Bub- 
bles? You've  got  to  stand  aside  and  leave  all  that 
to  others." 

"I  got  to  see  the  Head,  Miss  Barbara.  I  got  to 
ask  him." 

"Who  is  the  head,  Bubbles?" 

"I'd  tell  you  in  a  minute,  Miss  Barbara,  only  we're 
all  swore  to  tell  no  one.  But  what  he  says  goes  with 
me.  It's  got  to  be  that  way,  else  we'd  never  get 
nowhere." 


XXXVII 

MR.  ABE  LICHTENSTEIN  looked  up  from  a  mass  o! 
writing.  "So,"  he  smiled,  "you  got  your  few  days 
off?" 

"Mr.  Lichtenstein,"  said  Bubbles,  his  eyes  big,  his 
voice  trembling,  "an  awful  thing  has  happened." 

"You  can  tell  me  nothing  bad  but  I  can  tell  you 
some  thing  worse.  What  has  happened?" 

"The  old  un  is  my  father!" 

"Yes,"  said  Lichtenstein,  "I  have  thought  of  that. 
You  are  sure?  " 

"I'm  sure  enough  not  to  want  to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  huntin'  him.  But  that's  for  you  to 
say.  I  do  what  you  say." 

"I  won't  ask  you  to  go  on,"  said  Lichtenstein; 
"but  you're  still  with  us,  Bubbles?  You're  still  for 
cleaning  up  the  dirty  house  and  making  it  fit  for 
human  beings  to  live  in?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"As  far  as  your  father's  concerned  you'll  be  neu- 
tral." 

"Meaning  I  won't  do  nothing  against  him,  nor  for 
him?" 

The  red-headed  Jew  nodded.  "You  won't  do  like 
Rose?" 

"Rose?" 

271 


272  THE  PENALTY 

Lichtenstein's  face  became  very  cold  and  grim. 
"  She's  gone  over  to  him  body  and  soul,  Bubbles,  and 
heart  and  mind.  For  weeks  she's  fooled  us  with  non- 
sense— stuff  they've  made  up  together.  Worse,  she's 
broken  every  oath  she  ever  swore.  Our  strength  was 
secrecy.  Well,  your  father  knows  the  name  of  every 
agent  in  our  society.  Oh,  he's  got  it  all  out  of  her! 
Everything!" 

"Does  he  know  that  you  are " 

"Yes,  confound  him,  he  does.  And  my  life  is 
about  as  safe  in  this  city  as  that  of  the  average  cat 
in  the  Italian  quarter.  My  life  isn't  the  important 
thing.  It's  what  I've  got  in  my  head — cold  facts. 
See  all  this  stuff?  That's  what's  in  my  head  going 
down  on  paper  for  the  first  time.  It's  to  guide  the 
man  that  takes  my  place — to  help  him  over  some  of 
the  hard  places — three  hundred  sheets  of  it  already, 
and  only  a  week  since  I  began." 

"Rose!"  exclaimed  Bubbles. 

"There  was  none  better — none  smarter — till  she 
fell  in  love — fell  in  love!" 

"Does  he  know  I'm  one  of  us,  Mr.  Lichtenstein? " 

"Why,  yes.  I  suppose  she'll  have  given  even  the 
children  away."  Mr.  Lichtenstein's  eye  roamed  over 
the  suite  of  rich  rooms  with  their  elaborate  gambling- 
paraphernalia.  "  Not  much  doing,"  he  smiled,  "  since 
Rose  went  over.  The  tip's  out  that  I'm  wanted. 
Nobody  drops  in  for  a  quiet  game.  Bubbles,  you  tell 
people  when  you're  a  man  and  I'm  gone,  that  I  wasn't 
only  a  gambler.  Tell  'em  I  took  money  from  people 


THE  PENALTY  273 

who  had  plenty  but  wouldn't  take  the  trouble  to  do 
right  with  it,  and  tell  'em  I  used  that  money  to  do 
right — to  help  make  dirty  things  clean." 

He  turned  and  regarded  the  face  of  the  black  marble 
clock  on  the  mantel-piece.  As  he  looked  the  face  of 
the  clock  was  violently  shattered,  and  so,  but  on  a 
lower  level,  was  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  window  imme- 
diately opposite. 

Abe  Lichtenstein  fell  face  down  upon  his  unfinished 
manuscript. 


XXXVIII 

THEN  he  began  to  speak  in  a  quiet  voice.  "Never 
touched  me,  Bubbles.  Pull  that  cord  at  the  right  of 
the  window.  That  will  close  the  curtains.  Careful 
not  to  show  yourself.  The  man  that  fired  that  shot 
thinks  he  got  me.  I  fell  over  to  make  him  think  so 
and  to  keep  him  from  shooting  again.  Now  then" — 
the  curtain  had  been  drawn  over  the  window  with  the 
broken  pane — "let's  see  what  sort  of  a  gun  our 
friend  uses,  and  then  perhaps  we  can  spot  our  friend. 
Did  you  hear  the  shot?" 

"No,  sir.  There  was  a  noise  just  when  the  clock 
broke  like  when  a  steel  girder  falls  on  the  sidewalk." 

"That  noise  was  just  before  the  clock  broke,  Bub- 
bles. And  it  was  loud  enough  to  drown  the  noise  of 
our  friend's  gun.  Clever  work,  though,  to  have  to 
pull  the  trigger  at  a  given  moment,  and  to  make  such 
a  close  shot.  Probably  had  his  gun  screwed  in  a 
vise." 

Meanwhile  Lichtenstein  had  extracted  from  the 
ruined  clock  a  45-calibre  bullet  of  nickel  steel.  A 
glance  at  the  grooves  made  by  the  rifling  of  the  barrel 
from  which  it  had  been  expelled  caused  him  to  raise 
his  colorless  eyebrows  and  smile  cynically. 

"New  government  automatic,  Bubbles,"  he  said, 
"and  the  funny  part  of  it  is  they've  only  been  issued 

274 


THE  PENALTY  275 

to  officers  so  far,  and  the  factory  hasn't  put  'em  on 
sale  yet." 

"Must  have  been  stole  from  an  officer,  then,"  said 
Bubbles. 

"You  steal  her  jewels  from  an  actress,"  said  Lich- 
tenstein,  "her  mite  from  the  widow,  its  romances 
from  the  people,  but  you  don't  steal  his  side  arms 
from  an  American  army  officer.  No.  Somebody  in 
the  factory  has  let  the  weapon  that  fired  this  slip  out. 
It  doesn't  matter — it's  just  a  little  link  in  the  long 
chain." 

He  seated  himself  calmly  at  the  table  and  set  down 
in  black  and  white  the  fact  that  he  had  been  very 
nearly  murdered  by  a  bullet  fired  from  the  new  army 
pistol.  Then  he  began  to  gather  up  the  sheets  of  his 
manuscript. 

"Now  I  wonder,"  he  said,  "where  I  can  go  to  finish 
this  document?  I  don't  want  them  to  'get*  me  until 
I've  paved  the  way  for  the  man  that  comes  after  me. 
Now  then — the  secret  passage  isn't  only  for  the 
wicked." 

Kneeling  on  the  clean  hearth,  Mr.  Lichtenstein 
caused  the  ornamental  cast-iron  back  of  the  fire- 
place to  swing  outward  upon  a  hinge.  Reaching  a 
long  arm  into  the  disclosed  opening,  he  unfastened 
and  pushed  ajar  the  iron  back  of  a  fireplace  in  the 
next  house. 

Bubbles,  crawling  through  first,  found  himself  in  a 
somewhat  overdressed  pink  and  blue  bedroom.  The 
lace  curtains  were  too  elaborate.  The  room  was  lux- 


276  THE  PENALTY 

urious  and  vulgar.  Among  the  photographs  on  the 
centre-table  reposed  a  champagne-bottle,  three  parts 
empty,  and  two  glasses,  in  which  a  number  of  flies 
were  heavily  crawling. 

Lichtenstein,  having  carefully  replaced  the  fire- 
backs,  rose  smiling,  and  clapped  a  hand  upon  Bub- 
bles's  shoulder. 

"Now  then,  Bubbles,"  he  said,  "push  that  bell- 
button  by  the  door  four  times,  and  we'll  see  what 
Mrs.  Popple  can  do  to  get  us  out  of  this.  Never  met 
Mrs.  Popple?  She's  one  of  us,  and  at  heart  a  good 
one." 

The  lady  in  question  came  swiftly  in  answer  to  the 
four  rings.  At  first  sight  she  passed  for  a  woman  of 
hard  and  forbidding  aspect;  filmy  laces  and  a  cling- 
ing kimona  of  rose-pink  silk  neither  softened  nor 
made  feminine  the  alabaster-colored  face  with  its  thin, 
straight  mouth,  heavy  hairy  eyebrows,  and  clean-cut 
Greek  nose.  Only  her  costume  and  her  hair,  inde- 
scribably fine,  and  indescribably  yellow,  betrayed  that 
there  were  follies  in  her  nature.  But  the  moment  she 
spoke  you  liked  her.  She  had  a  slow,  deep,  beautiful 
voice,  and  the  slowness  of  her  speech  was  offset  by 
the  fewness  of  her  words. 

"What's  wrong,  Abe?" 

Lichtenstein  explained  briefly,  and  added:  "Now 
how  are  we  to  get  out  of  this  without  being  spotted 
and  followed?" 

"Easy,"  said  Mrs.  Popple.  She  went  to  a  vast 
wardrobe  painted  white,  and  pulled  the  creaking  doors 


THE  PENALTY  277 

wide  open.  "Wedge  the  man  into  one  dress,"  she 
said,  "pad  the  boy  into  another.  Send  'em  off  in  a 
taxi.  Now,  boy.  Is  this  Bubbles?  Pleased  to  meet 
you.  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  grandmother." 

The  words  were  a  command,  and  the  boy,  much 
embarrassed,  began  to  take  off  his  coat. 

"  Get  busy,  Abe.  Can  take  your  own  things  along 
in  a  suit-case.  I  don't  look,  see?  I'm  looking  out 
duds  for  you.  What's  that?  Razor?  Find  every- 
thing hi  medicine-closet  over  wash-basin  in  bath- 
room." 

Lichtenstein  disappeared,  and  gave  forth  presently 
the  rasping  sounds  of  a  man  shaving  in  a  hurry.  And 
in  the  meanwhile,  always  swift  and  sure,  Mrs.  Popple 
initiated  Bubbles  into  the  ABC's  of  female  attire. 

"No  trouble  about  a  straight  front  for  you,"  she 
chuckled,  and  gave  a  sudden  strong  tug  at  the  laces 
of  Bubbles's  corsets.  He  gasped,  and  the  tears  came 
to  his  eyes. 

"Mind  to  take  little  steps,"  she  said,  "and  don't 
swing  your  arms."  She  clasped  a  blond  wig  upon  his 
head,  and  drew  back  to  see  the  effect. 

"Abe,"  she  called,  "she's  a  pippin!" 

A  moment  later  she  frowned,  almost  savagely,  laid 
her  finger  on  her  lips,  knelt  at  the  fireplace,  thrust 
her  head  far  in  and  listened  intently. 

Lichtenstein,  one  side  of  his  face  in  lather,  appeared 
at  the  bath-room  door.  His  eyes  on  the  crouching 
figure  of  Mrs.  Popple,  he  continued  calmly  and  me- 
thodically to  shave  himself. 


278  THE  PENALTY 

After  an  interval  the  woman  rose,  and  shook  her 
head. 

"Can't  make  out  who's  in  there,"  she  whispered. 
"Have  Lizzie  watch  front  window  see  who  goes  out." 

Lichtenstein  nodded,  washed  the  tag  ends  of  lather 
from  his  face,  and  proceeded  in  dead  silence  to  dress 
himself  as  a  lady  of  somewhat  doubtful  age,  looks, 
and  position.  But  Bubbles  would  have  made  a  very 
pretty  girl,  if  Mrs.  Popple  had  not  insisted  on  powder- 
ing his  face  till  it  was  as  white  as  that  of  a  clown. 

"Won't  do  to  be  conspicuous,"  she  explained. 

Lichtenstein  packed  the  things  which  he  and  Bub- 
bles had  taken  off  into  a  suit-case  marked  "A,  P." 
(Amelia  Popple),  and  led  the  way  downstairs.  A 
little  later  a  taxicab  drew  up  at  the  curb,  and  the  two 
disguised  secret-service  agents  sauntered  down  the 
high  steps  of  Mrs.  Popple's  brownstone  house,  look- 
ing neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and  got  in. 

"Where  to?"  said  the  driver,  with  rather  a  bold 
leer.  The  average  lady  who  descended  or  ascended 
Mrs.  Popple's  steps,  was  not  considered  respectable 
even  by  taxi-drivers. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  Bubbles,  having  of  the  two 
the  more  feminine  adaptabilities  of  voice,  should  do 
the  talking. 

"Grand  Central,"  he  said. 


XXXIX 

BARBARA  was  reading  "Smoke"  and  did  not  wish  to 
be  interrupted  by  a  "young  person"  (in  the  footman's 
words)  who  refused  to  give  her  name.  Nevertheless 
she  was  weakly  good-natured  in  such  matters,  and 
closing  her  book  said:  "Very  well — in  here,  John." 

A  moment  later  the  young  person  was  shown  into 
the  living-room.  Barbara  was  still  more  annoyed, 
for  young  faces  covered  with  powder  were  odious  to 
her.  But  suddenly  the  young  person's  mouth  curled 
into  a  captivating  grin,  and  the  young  person  trotted 
forward  in  a  very  un-young-personish  way,  and  cried 
triumphantly: 

"It's  me— Bubbles." 

And  Bubbles  followed  Barbara's  gratifying  excla- 
mations of  surprise  and  inquiry  with  a  syncopated 
outburst  of  explanation,  finishing  with:  "And  Mr. 
Lichtenstein  said  I  was  to  throw  us  on  your  mercy, 
and  ask  if  he  could  stay  to  finish  his  writing,  and  he's 
stepped  into  some  bushes  off  the  driveway  to  put  on 
his  own  clothes.  And  please,  Miss  Barbara,  he's  just 
the  finest  and  bravest  ever,  and  don't  care  what  hap- 
pens to  him,  only  he  says  they're  bound  to  get  him 
now  everything's  found  out,  and  he's  just  got  to  finish 
writing  down  what  he  carries  in  his  head." 

279 


28o  THE  PENALTY 

"Of  course,"  said  Barbara,  "we'll  have  to  tell  my 
father;  but  all  will  be  well.  Mr.  Lichtenstein  shall 
stay.  Bring  him  to  me  when  he's  finished  changing, 
and  then  you'd  best  change,  and  if  you  don't  want 
to  have  a  sore  face  wash  all  that  nasty  stuff  off  it." 

Lichtenstein  had  already  changed,  and  was  com- 
ing up  the  driveway  carrying  a  suit-case.  Bubbles 
brought  him  at  once,  and  with  great  pride,  to  Bar- 
bara. Mr.  Lichtenstein  had  never  seen  her  before. 
In  his  bow  there  was  a  trace  of  Oriental  elaboration. 
And  his  curiously  meagreish,  pug-nosed  sandy  face 
beamed  with  pleasure  and  admiration. 

"I  thought  I  knew  my  New  York,  Miss  Ferris," 
he  said,  "but  it  seems  I  was  mistaken." 

Since  the  compliment  was  obviously  sincere,  Bar- 
bara took  pleasure  in  it,  and  the  pleasure  showed  in 
her  charming  face.  "And  Bubbles  says,"  said  she, 
"that  you  are  the  'finest  ever.'  I'm  glad  if  staying 
here  is  going  to  help  the  cause.  You  can  be  as 
private  as  you  like — '  But  a  sudden  change  had 
come  over  Lichtenstein's  face,  the  smile  had  vanished, 
the  eyes  grown  sharp,  even  stern.  "What  is  your 
maid's  name?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"My  maid?    Why,  what  about  her?" 

"She  passed  just  now — by  that  door.  I  saw  her 
in  the  mirror  at  the  end  of  the  room.  What's  her 
name?" 

"Marion — "  Barbara  hesitated. 

"O'Brien?" 

"Yes,  O'Brien." 


He  caught  her  by  the  wrist,  drew  her 
to  her  feet,  and  into  the  room 


THE  PENALTY  281 

"I  thought  so.  She's  in  Blizzard's  pay.  If  she 
has  recognized  me —  Shut  the  door  into  the  hall, 
Bubbles." 

The  door  being  shut,  Lichtenstein  crossed  the  room 
and  stood  near  it,  his  hand  on  the  knob.  For  nearly 
a  minute  he  neither  moved  nor  changed  expression. 
Then  a  smile  flickered  about  his  mouth,  and,  sure  of 
his  effect,  with  a  sharp  gesture  he  flung  the  door  wide 
open,  and  discovered  Miss  Marion  O'Brien  kneeling 
in  the  opening.  He  caught  her  by  the  wrist,  drew 
her  to  her  feet,  and  into  the  room. 

"Marion!"  exclaimed  Miss  Ferris. 


XL 


THERE  was  a  long  silence  during  which  Miss  O'Brien 
tried  to  look  defiant,  and  succeeded  only  in  shedding 
a  few  tears.  Barbara  had  always  liked  the  girl,  and 
now  felt  profoundly  sorry  for  her.  Lichtenstein,  too, 
seemed  sorry  and  at  a  loss  for  words.  The  position 
was  difficult.  The  O'Brien's  eavesdropping  war- 
ranted her  discharge,  and  nothing  more.  She  would 
go  straight  to  Blizzard  and  disclose  Lichtenstein's 
whereabouts.  But  this  in  itself  was  merely  an  annoy- 
ance, as  hi  the  meanwhile  the  secret  service  head  could 
go  elsewhere.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  dis- 
charge her  and  let  her  go.  So  Lichtenstein  said  pres- 
ently, and  then  wrote  with  a  pencil  on  a  card.  This 
card  he  handed  to  the  maid. 

"Give  that  to  your  employer,"  he  said.  On  the 
card  was  written:  "If  anything  happens  to  me  you 
will  be  indicted  for  the  Kaparoff  business,  and  there 
is  enough  evidence  in  a  safe  place  to  make  you  pay 
the  penalty.  Lichtenstein." 

"And  now,  Miss  Ferris,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  as  well 
to  let  this  girl  first  telephone  to  her  master  to  say 
that  I  am  here,  and  second  to  pack  her  trunks  and 
go." 

Barbara  smiled,  but  not  unkindly,  at  Marion,  and 
282 


THE  PENALTY  283 

nodded  her  brightly  colored  head.  "I  think  that 
will  be  best,  Marion." 

The  maid  turned  without  a  word  and  started  for 
the  hall-door,  but  was  brought  to  a  trembling  stop  by 
sudden  words  from  Bubbles. 

"Miss  Barbara,"  said  he,  "ask  her  where  your 
diamond  bow-knot  went!" 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Lichtenstein,  "an  excuse  for  keep- 
ing an  eye  on  her,  perhaps.  That  was  what  we 
needed.  How  about  this  bow-knot,  Marion?" 

The  guilt  in  the  girl's  face  must  have  been  obvious 
to  the  dullest  eye. 

"Oh,"  said  Barbara,  "is  it  good  enough?  She'd 
communicate  with  him  somehow.  This  isn't  the 
Middle  Ages.  Marion,  if  by  any  chance  any  of  my 
things  have  gotten  mixed  with  yours,  please  leave 
them  on  my  dressing-table." 

Marion,  very  red  in  the  face,  lurched  out  of  the 
room. 

"I  can't  very  well  give  her  a  character,"  said  Bar- 
bara. 

Lichtenstein  laughed.  "Plenty  of  worse  girls,"  he 
said,  "receive  excellent  characters  daily.  And  now  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  put  distance  between  this  house 
and  myself." 

Barbara  lifted  her  eyebrows.    "Why?" 

"Why?  She's  probably  working  the  telephone 
now." 

"I  know,"  said  Barbara,  "but  if  you  pretend  to  go, 
and  then  come  back,  this  would  be  the  last  home  in 


284  THE  PENALTY 

the  world  that  Blizzard  would  suspect  you  of  hiding 
in.  Marion  will  tell  him  her  story.  And  he  certainly 
won't  look  for  you  here." 

Lichtenstein's  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles.  "So 
be  it,"  he  said,  "and  I  shall  sit  at  your  feet  to  learn." 

"Can  you  drive  a  car?"  asked  Barbara. 

"What  kind  of  a  car?" 

"A  Stoughton?  But  if  you  can  drive  any  kind  you 
can  drive  a  Stoughton.  We'll  lend  you  a  car  and  you 
shall  take  a  long  run  and  come  back  when  it's  dark. 
If  you  start  at  once,  Marion  will  know  of  it.  Mean- 
while I'll  tell  my  father  all  about  everything.  But 
first  of  all  I'm  dying  with  curiosity  to  know  what  you 
wrote  on  that  card.  That's  all  I  can  say.  Of  course 
if  I'm  not  to  be  told " 

Had  she  asked  for  his  dearest  secret  Lichtenstein 
could  not  have  refused  it,  and  he  told  her  what  he 
had  written  on  the  card. 

"But  why,"  said  Barbara,  "if  you  have  a  criminal, 
so  to  speak,  where  you  want  him — why  let  him  be 
free  to  make  more  mischief?  I  ask  merely  for  in- 
formation." 

"If  he  were  punished  for  an  ordinary  crime,"  said 
Lichtenstein,  "justice  would  be  cheated.  But  if  we 
can  really  get  him  where  we  want  him,  why,  not  only 
crime  will  be  tried  and  found  guilty,  but  the  whole 
fabric  of  the  police — yes,  and  the  administration  of 
the  law.  Therefore,"  and  his  voice  was  cold  as  mar- 
ble, "it  would  be  inadvisable  to  run  him  in  for  such 
picayune  crimes  as  twisting  lead  pipe  round  young 


THE  PENALTY  285 

women  and  throwing  them  overboard,  or  otherwise 
delicately  quieting  tongues  that  might  be  made  to 
wag  against  him.  And  now  if  you  are  going  to  lend 
me  a  car " 


XLI 

WILMOT  ALLEN  was  surprised  and  annoyed  at  being 
called  back  to  New  York  by  his  employer.  He  had 
not  "gotten  over"  Barbara  in  the  least,  but  the  great 
West  had  entered  his  blood.  Thanks  to  financial 
arrangements  with  Blizzard  he  had  lived  a  life  free 
from  care,  and  indeed  had  grown  and  developed  in 
many  ways,  just  as  a  forest  tree  will,  to  which  air  and 
sunlight  has  been  admitted  by  removing  its  nearest 
neighbors,  together  with  all  their  claims  upon  the  rain- 
fall and  the  tree-food  locked  up  hi  the  forest  soil, 

He  had  grown  in  body  and  mind.  Wall  Street,  that 
had  seemed  so  broad  and  important  to  him,  now 
seemed  narrow  and  insignificant.  It  was  better  for 
a  man,  a  good  horse  between  his  knees,  to  find  out 
what  lay  beyond  the  Ridges  than  whether  steel  was 
going  up  or  down.  He  looked  back  upon  his  past 
life,  not,  it  is  true,  with  contempt  and  loathing,  but 
with  amused  tolerance,  as  a  man  wise  and  reliable 
looks  back  upon  the  pranks  of  his  boyhood. 

He  loved  Barbara  with  all  his  heart,  but  no  longer 
with  the  feeling  that  the  loss  of  her  would  put  an  end 
to  all  the  possibilities  of  life.  Indeed  he  was  coolly 
resolved  in  the  event  of  her  marrying  somebody  else 
to  marry  somebody  else  himself.  The  thought  of 
children  and  a  home  had  grown  very  dear  to  him. 

286 


THE  PENALTY  287 

In  short,  he  had  assimilated  a  characteristic  of  the 
great  unsettled  West,  where  the  ratio  of  the  male 
of  the  species  to  the  female  is  often  as  great  as  ten 
to  one. 

But  if  the  year  did  not  cure  him  of  Barbara  he 
would  get  her  if  he  could. 

To  the  main  line  was  a  day's  journey  over  a  single- 
track  road  abounding  in  undeveloped  way  stations, 
at  which  an  insatiable  locomotive  was  forever  stop- 
ping to  drink.  At  one  of  these  stations  a  young  man 
taller  and  broader  even  than  Wilmot  himself ,  and  like 
him  bearded  and  brown  as  autumn  leaves,  boarded 
the  train  laboriously  and  came  down  the  aisle  occa- 
sionally catching  at  the  backs  of  seats  for  support. 

A  second  look  assured  Wilmot  that  the  stranger 
was  not  drunk,  but  sick  or  hurt,  and  he  was  wonder- 
ing whether  or  not  to  offer  him  assistance,  when  the 
stranger  suddenly  stopped  and  smiled,  steadied  him- 
self with  one  hand,  and  held  out  the  other. 

"I  heard  that  you  would  be  on  this  train,"  he  said 
simply,  "so  I  managed  to  catch  it,  too.  May  I  sit 
with  you?" 

Wondering,  Wilmot  made  room  for  the  stranger  and 
waited  developments.  But  as  these  were  not  at  once 
forthcoming  he  felt  that  he  must  break  a  silence  which 
seemed  awkward  to  him.  And  he  turned  his  head 
and  saw  that  the  man  had  fainted. 

A  request  for  whiskey  addressed  to  a  car  containing 
a  dozen  men  accustomed  to  wrest  metals  from  the 
earth  was  not  in  vain.  Wilmot  chose  the  nearest  of 


288  THE  PENALTY 

twelve  outstretched  flasks,  and  was  obliged  to  refuse 
a  thirteenth  in  the  kindly  hand  of  the  conductor. 

"Feel  better?" 

"Thanks,  I'm  all  right." 

The  twelve  miners  withdrew  tactfully  to  their  seats. 

"Sure?" 

"Sure.  Just  let  me  sample  that  brand  again. 
Good.  Now  if  you  don't  mind  I'll  say  what  I  came 
to  say." 

"But  aren't  you  hurt — isn't  there  something  to 
do?" 

"  I've  been  hurt.  I'm  just  weak.  Don't  think  about 
it.  But  you're  Mr.  Wilmot  Allen  all  right,  aren't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"It's  hard  to  be  sure  of  a  man  you  never  knew  and 
who's  grown  a  beard  since  you  saw  him  last." 

"I  assure  you,"  Wilmot  smiled,  "that  I'm  only 
waiting  to  reach  a  first-class  barber-shop." 

"Perhaps  you  will  change  your  mind." 

"Why  should  I?" 

"You  know  a  man  named  O'Hagan?" 

Wilmot  nodded. 

"I  had  a  talk  with  him  up  in  the  mountains — 
yesterday.  He  spoke  truth  for  once.  You  know  a 
man  in  New  York — Blizzard?" 

"He's  been  a  good  friend  to  me." 

"Why?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"I  don't  know.  I've  asked  myself  that  question  a 
thousand  times." 


THE  PENALTY  289 

"He's  helped  you  with  your  debts  in  return  for 
your  services  in  teaching  a  lot  of  foreigners  to  shoot 
straight?" 

Wilmot  frowned. 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  he  could  have  ob- 
tained half  a  dozen  teachers  for  a  tenth  of  the 
money?" 

"That  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  Wilmot  stiffly. 

"Obviously  then  he  has  some  ulterior  use  for  you." 

"Very  possibly." 

"Please  don't  take  offence.  There  are  reasons  why 
you  shouldn't.  I  am  coming  to  them.  Remember, 
O'Hagan  talked  to  me,  and  talked  truth.  Blizzard  is 
planning  a  revolution.  You  are  to  be  one  of  the 
leaders.  You  imagine  that  one  of  the  hell-governed 
Latin  republics  is  to  be  the  seat  of  operations,  or  you 
wouldn't  have  gone  into  the  thing.  But  Blizzard  is 
after  bigger  game  than  undeveloped  wildernesses. 
Mr.  Allen,  you  are  part  of  a  conspiracy  to  overthrow 
the  government  of  New  York  City." 

"Say  that  again." 

The  stranger  smiled.  "O'Hagan  at  the  last  made 
a  clean  breast  of  everything.  He  had  to.  I  came 
West  to  make  him." 

"At  the  to?    What  does  that  mean?" 

"When  a  man  won't  talk  you  have  to  make  him — 
even  if  you  fix  him  so  that  he  can  never  talk  again." 

"Is  O'Hagan  dead?" 

"He  had  his  choice.  But  he  had  to  talk.  If  I  had 
let  him  off  afterward — I  couldn't  have  gotten  away 


290  THE  PENALTY 

with  the  information.  One  of  us  had  to  go  out,  and 
I  had  the  power  to  decide  which.  I  chose  that 
O'Hagan  should  be  the  one.  He  was  a  man  steeped 
in  crime.  I  am  not." 

"You  killed  him?" 

"I  am  a  very  poor  talker  if  I  have  conveyed  another 
meaning.  I  tracked  him  into  the  mountains.  He 
shot  me  twice  before  I  could  get  my  hands  on  him.  I 
twisted  the  truth  out  of  him,  and  then  as  I  was  about 
to  faint  like  a  school-girl,  and  as  my  information  was 
precious,  I  flung  him  over  a  cliff.  If  I  hadn't,  you 
see,  he  could  have  fixed  me  while  I  was  unconscious." 

The  man's  voice  was  very  quiet,  very  matter-of-fact. 
Wilmot  stared  at  him  with  a  sort  of  wondering  horror, 
for  he  knew  that  the  man  was  telling  the  truth. 

"He  shot  you  twice.  That  was  some  time  yester- 
day. You've  seen  a  doctor?  " 

"There  was  none,  and  I  had  to  ride  all  night  to  get 
here." 

"Are  you  badly  hit?" 

The  stranger  drew  back  his  coat  and  disclosed  a 
shirt  twice  perforated  over  the  abdomen  and  dark 
with  dried  and  thickening  blood.  "Please  don't  try 
to  do  anything.  There's  no  help.  The  damage  is 
where  it  doesn't  show.  Only  listen,  please,  and  be- 
lieve, and  be  frank  with  me." 

Wilmot  nodded  gravely.  "I  don't  know  who  you 
are,"  he  said,  "but  you  are  hurt,  and  if  you'd  rather 
talk  than  try  to  do  something  about  it,  of  course 
I'll  listen." 


"I  twisted  the  truth  out  of  him,  and 
then  flung  him  over  a  cliff" 


THE  PENALTY  291 

"You  are  in  wrong  on  the  revolution,"  said  the 
stranger.  "It  is  not  to  come  off  in  South  America, 
but  in  the  city  of  New  York.  If  Blizzard's  plans 
carry,  this  will  happen.  On  the  i5th  of  January  there 
will  be  an  explosion  of  dynamite  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  from  the  Battery  to  the  Bronx.  At  that  signal 
two-thirds  of  the  police  force,  at  the  moment  on  active 
duty,  will  be  shot  dead  in  their  tracks.  The  assassins, 
distinguished  from  law-abiding  citizens  by  straw  hats 
of  a  peculiar  weave " 

"I  have  such  a  hat  in  my  trunk." 

"Are  to  assemble  together  with  that  third  of  the 
police  force  whom  it  was  not  necessary  to  annihilate, 
at  the  Sub-Treasury  hi  Wall  Street.  Here  they  will 
receive  further  orders — some  to  loot  the  Sub-Treasury, 
some  to  loot  banks,  some  Tiffany's,  some  the  great 
wholesale  jewellers  of  Maiden  Lane.  You,  perhaps,  as 
a  man  of  superior  talk  and  breeding,  would  be  sent 
with  a  picked  crew  of  Polacks,  dagoes,  and  other  high- 
minded  patriots  to  rifle  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of 
Art " 

"Look  here,  did  O'Hagan " 

"He  did.  Meanwhile  all  communication  by  tele- 
phone, by  telegraph,  by  cable  between  New  York  and 
the  outer  world  will  be  cut  off.  For  at  least  twenty- 
four  hours  the  city  will  be  in  Blizzard's  power,  at  his 
disposition." 

"How  about  communication  by  train?" 

"Trains  will  come  into  the  Grand  Central  and  the 
Pennsylvania,  but  they  will  not  go  out." 


292  THE  PENALTY 

"A  man  could  jump  into  an  automobile  and  carry 
the  news." 

"Ferries  will  stop  running.    Bridges  will  be  closed." 

The  idea  of  looting  New  York  had  fired  Wilmot's 
imagination.  It  was  a  possibility  to  which  he  had 
never  before  given  any  thought. 

"But,"  he  objected,  "there  must  be  a  flaw  some- 
where." 

"Probably,"  admitted  the  stranger.  "For  there  is 
a  flaw  in  Blizzard's  mind.  It  is  the  only  way  to  ac- 
count for  him.  He  stands  on  the  verge  of  insanity." 

"Suppose  the  plan  carries.  The  city  has  been 
looted.  What  next?" 

"The  stuff  is  hidden  under  Blizzard's  house  in 
Marrow  Lane  in  cellars  that  he  has  been  preparing 
for  years.  A  passage  leads  from  these  cellars  to  a 
pier  on  the  East  River.  Either  he  gets  away  with 
his  loot  in  a  stolen  liner,  or  he  finds  that  he  may  live 
on  in  New  York,  or  perhaps  in  Washington." 

"I  don't  see  that." 

"What  effect  would  a  successful  revolution  in  New 
York  have  upon  the  discontented  and  the  murderous 
of  other  cities?  Are  the  criminals  of  San  Francisco, 
Denver,  Chicago  to  be  outdone  by  the  criminals  of 
the  effete  East?  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Allen,  that  sometimes 
in  mad  visions  the  legless  beggar  sees  upon  his  brows 
a  kingly  crown." 

"But  the  rest  of  the  police — the  garrison  at  Gov- 
ernor's Island?" 

"O'Hagan  was  Blizzard's  right-hand  man,  his  gen- 


THE  PENALTY  293 

eral  in  the  West.  For  the  honor  of  being  his  left- 
hand  man  there  are  two  aspirants — the  mayor  of  New 
York  City  and  the  police  commissioner — nor  will  the 
lieutenant-governor  of  our  great  State  hold  his  hands 
behind  his  back  and  shake  his  head  when  the  loot  is 
being  distributed." 

"Are  you  joking?" 

"No,  Mr.  Allen.  I  am  dying.  Now  listen.  I  as- 
sume that  you  are  no  longer  with  Blizzard." 

"What  an  ass  I've  been!" 

"You  are  to  find  Abe  Lichtenstein  and  tell  him 
what  I  have  told  you.  The  boy  Bubbles  will  put  you 
on  his  track.  As  for  money  which  Blizzard  has  ad- 
vanced to  you —  "  The  stranger  fumbled  in  his  breast 
pocket  and  brought  forth  a  much-soiled  sheet  of  paper. 
"This  locates  outlying  mining  claims  in  Utah.  They 
will  make  you  rich.  One-third  to  you — one-third  to 
Miss  Barbara  Ferris — one-third  to  the  boy  Bubbles. 
You  will  tell  him  that  I  was  his  brother — different 
mothers,  but  the  same  father." 

"You  are  Harry  West,"  and  Wilmot  looked  with 
compassionate  interest  upon  the  man  who,  if  only  for 
a  brief  period  of  time,  had  once  stood  first  in  Barbara's 
affections. 

Under  the  strain  of  talking  West's  voice  had  grown 
weaker.  "Miss  Barbara,"  he  said  quietly,  "is  in 
great  danger  from  my  father " 

"Your  father?" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?  Oh,  yes.  He  is  my  father — 
Blizzard.  That  is  why  I  don't  mind  dying.  When 


294  THE  PENALTY 

the  city  is  in  confusion,  and  without  any  laws  save 
of  his  own  dictation,  Miss  Barbara  will  be  in  terrible 
danger.  Many  years  from  now,  when  it  can  do  no 
harm  with  you,  tell  her,  please,  that  in  my  life  I  had 
the  incomparable  privilege " 

Wilmot  leaped  to  his  feet.  "Is  there  a  doctor 
here?  This  man  is  dying." 

But  the  Spartan,  the  wolf  Death  gnawing  at  his 
vitals,  had  said  all  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
say.  Wilmot  Allen's  strong  arm  about  him,  his  mouth 
vaguely  smiling,  he  fell  heavily  forward  as  if  under 
the  weight  of  a  new  and  overpowering  wonder  and 
knowledge. 


XLII 

NOTHING  so  makes  for  insomnia  as  a  man's  knowledge 
that  he  has  made  a  fool  of  himself.  Between  Chicago 
and  New  York  Wilmot  Allen  did  not  even  have  his 
berth  made  up.  He  visited  the  dining-car  at  the 
proper  intervals,  hardly  conscious  of  what  he  ordered 
or  ate.  He  bought  newspapers,  books,  magazines, 
and  opened  none  of  them.  For  the  most  part  he 
looked  out  the  window  of  his  compartment  into  rush- 
ing daylight  or  darkness.  His  mind  kept  travelling 
the  round  of  a  great  circle  that  began  and  ended  in 
humiliation.  He  had  been  as  confiding  in  Blizzard's 
hands  as  an  undeveloped  child  of  seven.  He  had 
been  teaching  men  whose  creed  was  murder  and  an- 
archy how  to  handle  weapons.  He  had  taken  at  their 
face  value  words  uttered  by  an  emperor  among  scoun- 
drels; had  asked  no  material  or  leading  questions,  and 
was  in  his  conscience  paying  the  penalty  for  having 
snatched  at  tainted  money  with  which  to  relieve  him- 
self of  obligations  that  pressed  till  they  hurt. 

Beginning  in  humiliation,  the  circle  of  his  thoughts 
ascended  time  after  time  to  Barbara,  only  to  fall  from 
the  high  and  tender  lights  which  memories  and  antici- 
pations of  her  brought  into  them,  back  to  that  dark- 
ness in  which  he  struggled  to  give  himself  "a  little 
the  best  of  things"  and  could  not. 

295 


296  THE  PENALTY 

On  arriving  in  New  York  a  man  of  more  complex 
mental  processes  would  have  tried  first  of  all  to  get 
the  precious  information  which  he  carried  into  the 
possession  of  Lichtenstein,  but  Wilmot  felt  that  he 
could  have  no  peace  until  he  had  seen  Blizzard, 
spoken  his  mind,  and  washed  his  hands  of  him.  That 
he  would  then  put  his  own  life  in  danger  did  not  occur 
to  him,  and  would  not  have  altered  his  determination 
if  it  had. 

The  lure  of  Barbara,  however,  drew  him  aside  from 
the  direct  path  to  Marrow  Lane.  He  had  resolved 
not  to  see  her  for  a  year,  but  thought  it  right  to  break 
through  that  resolution  in  order  to  tell  her  at  first 
hand  of  Harry  West's  death.  But  the  janitor  told 
him  that  Miss  Ferris  had  not  been  coming  to  the 
studio  for  a  long  time.  She  had  had  no  word  from 
her.  She  had  left  one  day  by  the  back  stair  without 
her  hat;  a  little  later  the  legless  beggar  had  left  by 
the  front  door.  His  expression  had  been  enough  to 
frighten  a  body  to  death.  Yes,  the  boy  had  come 
one  day  in  a  taxicab  and  gone  away  with  her  things. 
He  had  refused  to  answer  any  questions.  She  had 
never  thought  very  highly  of  him  as  a  boy.  No,  the 
bust  upon  which  Miss  Ferris  had  been  at  work  had 
not  been  removed.  No,  the  gentleman  could  not 
see  it.  Orders  were  orders.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  gentleman 
could  see  it.  After  all  there  had  been  no  orders  re- 
cently. 

She  led  the  way  upstairs,  her  hand  tightly  closed 
upon  a  greenback.  She  unlocked  and  flung  open  the 


THE  PENALTY  297 

door  of  Barbara's  studio,  remarking  that  nothing  in 
it  had  been  touched  since  that  lady's  departure. 

Wilmot  noticed  much  dust,  an  overturned  chair, 
and  then  his  eyes  rose  to  the  bust  of  Blizzard  as  to  a 
living  presence.  The  expression  of  that  bestial  fallen 
face  made  his  spine  feel  as  if  ants  were  crawling  on  it. 
And  he  turned  away  with  disgust  and  hatred.  "Oh, 
Barbs,  Barbs,  what  a  wrong-headed  little  darling  you 
are!"  But  he  added:  "And  Lord,  what  a  talent  she's 
got!" 

Blizzard  was  not  in  his  office.  But  he  was  up- 
stairs and  expected  Mr.  Allen. 

A  girl  who  had  been  wonderfully  pretty  told  Wil- 
mot these  things.  She  would  have  been  wonderfully 
pretty  still,  for  she  was  very  young,  if  she  had  not 
looked  so  tired,  so  unhappy,  so  broken-spirited.  Did 
Rose  still  love  the  man  for  whom  she  had  betrayed 
her  friends  and  her  own  better  nature?  Yes.  But 
she  had  learned  that  she  was  no  more  to  him  than  a 
plaything — to  caress  or  to  break  as  seemed  most 
amusing  to  him.  At  first  until  the  novelty  of  her  had 
worn  off  he  had  shown  her  a  sufficiency  of  brusque 
tenderness.  Latterly  as  his  great  plans  matured  he 
had  been  all  brute.  Sometimes  he  made  her  feel  that 
he  was  so  surfeited  with  her  love  that  he  considered 
killing  her. 

Sideways,  with  eyes  haunted  by  shame  and  tragedy, 
she  gave  the  handsome  bearded  youth  a  look  of  com- 
passion. "In  here,  please,"  she  said. 

The  door  closed  behind  Wilmot  with  an  ominous 


298  THE  PENALTY 

click,  and  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  leg- 
less beggar.  In  this  one's  eyes,  seen  above  a  table  lit- 
tered with  pamphlets  and  writings,  was  none  of  that 
mock  affability  to  which  he  had  formerly  treated 
Wilmot  Allen.  He  looked  angry,  dangerous,  poison- 
ous. And  he  broke  into  a  harsh,  ugly  laugh. 

"It  takes  you,"  he  said,  "to  rush  in  where  angels 
fear  to  tread.  Welcome  to  my  parlor!  What  a  fool! 
My  God!  You  heard  what  Harry  West  had  to  say 
before  he  died,  and  you  came  straight  here." 

"I  don't  know  how  you  know  it.  But  I  did  talk 
to  your  son.  I  did  hear  what  he  said.  And  I  came 
here  to  tell  you.  And  to  tell  you  that  there  will  be 
no  more  dealings  between  us.  I  am  going  straight 
from  here  to  tell  the  proper  authorities  what  I  know." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  punch  my  face  first?  That's 
what  you'd  like  to  do.  It's  in  your  eyes.  But  you're 
afraid." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Wilmot,  "and  you  know  it." 

For  answer  the  legless  man  picked  up  a  silver 
dollar  from  among  the  papers  in  front  of  him,  and 
broke  it  savagely  into  four  pieces.  "Afraid!"  he  said. 
"Afraid!  Afraid!" 

Wilmot  took  a  step  forward.  "It  would  give  me 
the  greatest  pleasure,"  he  said  quietly,  "to  knock 
your  head  off.  Unfortunately  you  are  a  cripple." 

Blizzard  said  nothing,  and  presently,  white  with 
anger  and  contempt,  Wilmot  turned  and  tried  the 
handle  of  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered.  Bliz- 
zard laughed. 


"Climb  out  of  that  chair,  and  let  me 
out  of  this  house" 


THE  PENALTY  299 

"This  door  is  locked,"  said  Wilmot. 

"You  are  a  prisoner  in  this  house." 

"lam,  ami?" 

Quick  as  lightning  he  had  drawn  and  levelled  at  the 
legless  man  an  automatic  pistol  of  the  largest  calibre. 
The  legless  man  did  not  move  an  inch,  change  expres- 
sion, or  take  his  eyes  from  Wilmot's. 

Wilmot  advanced  till  only  the  table  separated 
them.  "You  will,"  he  said,  "climb  out  of  that  chair, 
and  let  me  out  of  this  house,  walking  in  front  of  me." 

The  legless  beggar  appeared  to  consider  the  matter. 
There  was  silence.  Wilmot  shifted  the  position  of  his 
feet,  and  the  floor  boards  under  them  creaked. 

Blizzard  appeared  to  have  made  up  his  mind.  He 
spread  his  hands  on  the  table  as  if  to  help  himself 
out  of  his  chair.  The  palm  of  his  right  hand,  un- 
known to  Wilmot,  covered  an  electric  push-button. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Blizzard,  "you  won't  be  in  such  a 
hurry  to  go  after  you  hear  that  Miss  Barbara  Ferris 
is  also  a  prisoner  in  this  house " 

In  horror  and  bewilderment  Wilmot  allowed  the 
muzzle  of  his  automatic  to  swerve.  In  that  moment 
the  palm  of  the  legless  man's  right  hand  pressed  upon 
the  button,  and  the  square  of  the  floor  upon  which 
Wilmot  stood  dropped  like  the  trap  of  a  gallows,  and 
he  fell  through  the  opening  into  darkness. 

He  was  neither  stunned  nor  bruised,  and  he  began 
to  grope  about  for  the  pistol  which  in  the  sudden  de- 
scent had  been  knocked  from  his  hand.  The  only 
light  came  from  the  open  trap  in  the  floor  above. 


300  THE  PENALTY 

Something  fell  softly  at  his  feet;  he  picked  it  up.  It 
was  a  cloth,  saturated  with  chloroform.  He  flung  it 
from  him,  and  began  with  a  new  haste  to  grope  and 
fumble  for  his  pistol. 

Another  cloth  fell,  and  another.  Distant  and  ugly 
laughter  fell  with  them.  More  cloths,  and  already  the 
air  in  the  place  reeked  with  chloroform. 

He  no  longer  knew  what  he  was  looking  for,  and 
when  at  last  his  hand  closed  upon  the  stock  of  the 
automatic,  he  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  he  had 
found. 

Another  cloth  fell. 


XLII1 

HE  came  to  in  a  narrow  iron  bed,  weak,  nauseated, 
and  handcuffed.  He  could  rub  his  feet  together,  but 
he  could  not  separate  them.  He  had  been  dreaming 
about  Barbara — horrible  dreams.  His  first  conscious 
thought  was  that  she,  too,  was  a  prisoner  hi  the  house 
of  Blizzard,  and  that  somehow  or  other  he  must  save 
her.  Having  tried  hi  vain  to  break  the  bright,  deli- 
cate-looking handcuffs,  he  tried  in  vain  to  think 
calmly.  Hours  passed.  Nobody  came.  He  worked 
himself  gradually  into  a  fever  of  impotent  rage.  Civ- 
ilization slipped  away  from  him.  He  was  ready,  if 
necessary,  to  fight  with  his  teeth,  to  gouge  eyes,  to 
inflict  any  barbarous  atrocity  upon  his  enemy. 

Gradually,  for  the  air  hi  the  room  was  fresh,  the 
feeling  of  sickness  passed  away,  and  was  succeeded 
by  weakness  and  lassitude.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
being  a  strong  man,  hi  splendid  health,  he  was  faint 
from  hunger.  But  he  did  not  know  this. 

An  elderly  woman  came  softly  into  the  room.  She 
wore  a  blue  dress,  a  white  apron,  a  white  kerchief, 
white  cuffs,  a  white  cap.  Her  face  was  disfigured  by 
a  great  brown  protruding  mole  from  which  a  tuft  of 
hair  sprouted;  she  had  an  expression  of  methodical 
kindness,  but  small  shifting  eyes  in  which  was  no 
honesty. 

301 


302  THE  PENALTY 

She  carried  a  cup  that  smoked.  She  put  the  cup 
on  a  table,  lifted  Wilmot  to  a  sitting  position,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  child,  and  asked  him  if  he  was  hungry. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  answer;  he  was  getting 
used  to  the  discovery  that  he  had  been  undressed  and 
was  wearing  a  linen  night-gown.  Then  he  nodded 
toward  the  smoking  cup. 

"How  do  I  know  it  isn't  poisoned?" 

"Come — come,"  said  the  woman,  "you'd  have  gone 
out  under  the  chloroform  if  that  had  been  the  inten- 
tion. Better  keep  your  strength  up." 

After  a  few  spoonfuls  of  the  soup,  Wilmot  suggested 
that  he  should  prefer  something  solid. 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"If  I'm  to  be  kept  alive,"  he  said  petulantly,  "why 
not  comfortably  ?  " 

"Nothing  solid.    That's  the  doctor's  orders." 

"Blizzard's?" 

"No.    The  doctor." 

"What  doctor?" 

"Why,  Dr.  Ferris." 

"Where  is  he?    I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

"He  isn't  here.  He's  corning  when  everything's 
ready." 

"Everything  ready?"  A  nameless  fear  began  to 
gnaw  at  Wilmot's  vitals.  And  at  that  moment  the 
door  swung  open,  and  he  saw,  beyond  the  bulking 
head  and  shoulders  of  the  legless  man,  a  narrow  iron 
table,  white  and  shining,  in  a  room  all  glass  and  white 
paint 


THE  PENALTY  303 

On  the  entrance  of  Blizzard,  the  woman  took  up 
the  remains  of  the  soup,  and  passed  noiselessly  out 
of  the  room. 

Blizzard  climbed  to  the  foot  of  Wilmot's  bed,  and 
sat  looking  at  him.  In  his  eyes  there  was  a  glitter  of 
suppressed  excitement.  "When  our  last  talk  was  in- 
terrupted," he  said,  "I  had  just  told  you  that  Miss 
Ferris  is  a  prisoner  in  this  house.  You  don't  like  the 
idea?" 

Wilmot  shuddered  and  made  a  convulsive  effort  to 
break  the  handcuffs.  He  struggled  with  them  in  des- 
perate silence  for  nearly  a  minute. 

"I  might  break  them,"  said  Blizzard,  "but  you 
can't.  Try  to  be  as  reasonable  as  you  can.  Miss 
Ferris  is  in  no  immediate  danger.  I  am  going  to  let 
her  go,  if  you  and  I  can  agree." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  agree  to?" 

"I've  had  it  in  mind  for  a  long  time.  It  was  why 
I  relieved  you  of  money  cares,  and  sent  you  West. 
I  wished  to  put  you  in  a  state  of  perfect  health  before 
trying  an  experiment  of  the  utmost  interest  and  value 
to  science.  Only  your  consent  is  now  wanting. 
Upon  that  consent  depends  Miss  Ferris's  fate.  Refuse 
and  I  leave  your  lover  heart  to  imagine  what  that  fate 
may  be.  She  is  absolutely  in  my  power — absolutely. 
Do  you  know  her  writing?  " 

He  smiled  a  little  and  held  before  Wilmot's  eyes  a 
sheet  of  note-paper. 

"She  has  just  written  it,"  he  said,  "of  her  own  free 
will." 


304  THE  PENALTY 

Wilmot  read:  "I  will  marry  you,  as  soon  as  I  know 
that  Wilmot  Allen  is  out  of  your  power  and  safe  in 
life  and  limb." 

A  sort  of  ecstasy,  half  anguish  and  half  delight, 
thrilled  through  Wilmot.  The  writing  was  unmis- 
takably Barbara's — and  she  was  ready  to  make  that 
sacrifice  for  him! 

"She  sha'n't  do  that,"  he  said,  "so  help  me  God. 
What  must  I  do — to  save  her?  " 

"Young  man,"  said  the  legless  man,  "you  must 
give  me  your  legs." 

Wilmot  was  at  first  bewildered. 

"My  legs?" 

"They  are  to  be  grafted  on  my  poor  old  stumps," 
said  Blizzard.  "You  won't  die.  You'll  just  be  as  I 
am  now.  And  I — I,"  his  eyes  shone  with  an  unholy 
light,  "shall  be  as  you  are  now — a  biped — a  real  man 
— a  giant  of  a  man.  You  are  going  to  consent?  " 

"How  do  I  know  that  you  will  let  Miss  Ferris  go?" 

"You  shall  have  news  of  her  freedom  and  safety  in 
her  own  writing." 

"When  I  have  that  assurance,"  said  Wilmot,  "I 
will  consent  to  anything.  Any  decent  man  would 
give  his  life  for  a  woman — why  not  his  legs  ?  Is  Dr. 
Ferris  to  operate?" 

"He  will  be  the  chief  of  three  surgeons." 

"But  he  won't  cut  off  my  legs.  We're  old  friends. 
He " 

"Won't  know  you  in  that  beard.  I  have  told  him 
that  you  are  a  murderer  whom  I  have  saved  from  the 


THE  PENALTY  305 

chair.  That  in  gratitude  for  this  and  for  the  further 
services  of  smuggling  you  out  of  the  country  and 
giving  you  a  large  sum  of  money — not  forgetting  the 
crying  interests  of  science — you  have  consented  to 
give  me  your  legs.  He  will  ask  you  if  you  consent 
to  have  your  legs  cut  off,  and  you  will  nod  your 
head  without  speaking — then  when  my  old  stumps 
have  been  prepared — you  will  be  put  under  an  anaes- 
thetic  " 

"First  I  must  know  that  Miss  Ferris  is  safe." 

"  Give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  when  you  know 
that  she  is — you  will  consent." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  have  to  do  with  honor," 
said  Wilmot,  "but  I  give  my  word." 

"Then,"  said  Blizzard,  sliding  to  the  floor,  "I  go 
to  set  Miss  Ferris  free." 


XLIV 

Ax  first  Barbara  could  not  bear  to  tell  her  father,  but 
at  last  her  excitement  and  distress  became  so  great 
that  she  had  to  tell  him.  In  a  few  hours  she  had 
changed  from  a  radiant  person  to  one  white,  sick,  and 
shadowed. 

"I've  seen  that  man,"  she  said.  "I  was  writing 
notes  in  the  summer-house.  He " 

"What  man— Blizzard?    Well? " 

"I've  promised  to  marry  him.  He  has  Wilmot 
Allen  in  his  house — hi  his  power.  He  told  me  that 
if  I  would  marry  him,  he  would  let  Wilmot  go.  If  I 
wouldn't,  he  would  kill  him  with  indescribable  tort- 
ures. I  told  him  that  I  would  marry  him  when  I 
learned  that  Wilmot  was  safe.  And  so  I  will,  and 
then  I  will  kill  myself.  You've  got  to  do  something. 
I  never  knew  till  he  was  in  this  awful  danger  that 
in  all  the  world  there  was  never  anybody  for  me  but 
Wilmot — fool  not  to  know  it  in  time." 

Dr.  Ferris  made  her  drink  something  that  he  mixed 
in  a  glass.  In  a  few  minutes  her  jumping  nerves  be- 
gan to  come  into  control. 

"Wilmot,"  said  he,  "will  never  consent  to  save 
himself  at  your  expense.  And  I  think  I  can  promise 
you  that  Blizzard  will  do  nothing  in  this  matter  for 
some  time.  He  is  to  undergo  a  very  serious  operation 

306 


mm. 


"I've  seen  that  man.  I  was  writing 
notes  in  the  summer  house  when  he 
came" 


THE  PENALTY  307 

to-night.  It  has  all  been  arranged.  A  man  under 
obligation  to  Blizzard  has  consented  to  give  his  legs 
— I  am  to  operate.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that, 
daughter.  I  have  given  my  word  that  if  I  thought 
the  thing  could  be  done,  I  would  do  it.  The  man 
consents.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't.  I 
would  do  more  to  undo  what  I  have  done,  and  in  the 
interests  of  science." 

"You  don't  understand.  The  man  who  consents 
is  Wilmot." 

"Did  Blizzard  tell  you  so?" 

"Nobody  has  told  me.  I  know  it.  He  consents 
so  that  I  may  go  free." 

"Of  course  if  Wilmot  is  the  man " 

"You  couldn't — you  wouldn't  do  it  to  him,  father." 

"And  you  so  in  love  with  him,  my  dear!  We  must 
go  to  the  police." 

"No,  we  mustn't.  He  said  that  if  we  tried  to  play 
any  tricks,  we  might  get  him,  but  never  Wilmot, 
alive.  Don't  you  see?  Father,  the  man  isn't  fit  to 
live.  He's  insane." 

"Answer  wanted,  Miss  Barbara."  Bubbles  en- 
tered hesitatingly,  a  note  in  his  hand. 

One  glance  at  the  superscription,  and  Barbara 
ripped  open  the  envelope.  She  read  the  note  and  her 
brows  contracted  with  pain.  "Read  that,  father." 

Dr.  Ferris  read: 

DEAREST  BARBS: 

I  can't  help  breaking  my  silence  to  say  I  love  you  with 
my  whole  heart  and  soul.  Only  tell  me  that  you  are  safe 


3o8  THE  PENALTY 

and  sound  in  your  father's  house.  I  want  much  to  know 
that,  for  I  am  on  the  brink  of  a  great,  a  dangerous,  and  I 
think  a  noble  venture.  WILMOT. 

"What  did  I  tell  you!"  she  exclaimed.  "Who 
brought  this,  Bubbles?" 

"Nobody — a  messenger-boy." 

"Barbara,"  said  her  father,  "write  that  you  are 
safe  at  home.  I'll  tell  Lichtenstein  what  has  hap- 
pened. He's  our  best  advice.  Where  is  Mr.  Lich- 
tenstein, Bubbles?" 

"In  his  room,  sir,  writing." 

Dr.  Ferris  left  hurriedly,  and  Bubbles,  gnawed  by 
unsatisfied  curiosity,  stood  first  on  one  foot  and  then 
on  the  other  while  Barbara  wrote  to  Wilmot.  Some- 
how it  was  a  very  difficult  note  to  write,  for  she  felt 
sure  that  it  would  not  be  read  by  Wilmot's  eyes  alone, 
and  she  didn't  wish  by  a  syllable  further  to  incite  the 
legless  man  against  his  prisoner.  So  at  last  she  merely 
wrote  that  she  was  with  her  father  at  Clovelly. 
What  she  wanted  to  write  was  that  her  love  for  him 
had  grown  and  grown  until  she  was  sure  of  it. 

After  Bubbles  had  gone  with  the  note  she  sat  for  a 
long  time  without  moving,  silent  and  white. 

When  her  father  returned,  bringing  Lichtenstein, 
he,  too,  was  white.  "I  am  going  to  town  at  once," 
he  said.  "God  willing,  I  shall  have  only  good  news 
for  you." 

Barbara  turned  to  Lichtenstein.  "You've  thought 
out  something?  " 

He  nodded  gravely. 


"Read  that,  father" 


XLV 

' '  MY  treasure !    My  ownest  own ! " 

Rose  cowered  from  the  cold  malice  in  the  legless 
man's  voice,  and  from  the  unearthly  subdued  excite- 
ment in  his  eyes. 

"Sit  there  opposite  me.  Don't  be  afraid.  Things 
are  coming  my  way.  To-morrow  I  shall  have  a  pair 
of  legs.  Think  of  that!  Are  you  thinking  of  it?" 

She  nodded. 

The  legless  man  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  palm  of 
his  hand.  "I  told  him,"  he  said,  "that  she  was  a 
prisoner  in  this  house.  He  said  he  would  give  me 
his  legs  if  I  would  let  her  go  free.  He  wrote  a  note 
asking  if  she  was  safe  and  sound.  I  sent  it  out  to  her 
place  where  she  was  all  the  time,  and  of  course  she 
answered  that  she  was  safe  and  sound." 

He  chuckled,  and  his  agate  eyes  appeared  to  give 
off  sparks. 

"But  she,"  he  went  on,  "has  promised  to  marry 
me,  if  I  will  let  him  go  free.  They  love  each  other, 
Rose.  They  love  each  other!  But  I'm  not  jealous. 
It  won't  come  to  anything.  First  I  will  get  his  legs. 
Then,  if  he  lives,  I  will  make  him  write  to  her  that  he 
is  sound  and  free.  I  will  tell  her  that  he  refused  to 
sacrifice  himself.  That  will  make  her  hate  him,  and 
then  we'll  be  married  and  live  happily  ever  after, 

309 


3io  THE  PENALTY 

But  if  she  breaks  her  word,  why  on  the  i5th  of  Jan- 
uary she  will  be  taken,  wherever  she  is,  and  brought 
here,  and  we — we  won't  be  married!"  He  laughed  a 
long,  ugly  laugh. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me?" 

The  legless  man  considered.  "I'm  afraid  you'll  be 
too  jealous  to  have  about,  my  pretty  Rose.  I'm 
afraid  your  love  for  me  will  turn  into  a  different  feel- 
ing— in  spite  of  the  beautiful  new  legs  that  I  shall 
have.  In  short,  my  dear,  knowing  women  as  I  do, 
you  are  one  of  my  greatest  problems.  If  I  could  be 
sure  that  you  wouldn't  give  anything  away  before 
the  1 5th — after  that  it  wouldn't  matter." 

"Are  you  leading  up  to  the  announcement  that  you 
are  going  to  kill  me?"  She  looked  him  straight  in 
the  eyes,  and  began  to  shiver  as  if  she  was  very  cold. 

"Wouldn't  that  be  best,"  he  asked,  "for  everybody 
concerned?" 

"I  swear  to  God  I  won't  give  anything  away,"  she 
said. 

He  continued  to  smile  in  her  face.  "I  could  do  it 
for  you,"  he  said,  "so  delicately — so  painlessly — with 
my  hands — and  your  troubles  would  be  all  over." 

He  took  her  slender  white  neck  between  the  palms 
of  his  great  hairy  hands  and  caressed  it.  She  did  not 
shrink  from  his  touch. 

"Rose,"  he  said  presently  and  with  the  brutal  and 
tigerish  quality  gone  from  his  voice,  "you're  brave. 
But  I  know  women  too  well.  I  don't  trust  you.  If 
you'd  screamed  then  or  shown  fear  in  any  way,  you'd 


THE  PENALTY  311 

be  dead  now.  After  the  i5th  you  shall  do  what  you 
please  with  your  life.  Meanwhile,  my  dear,  lock  and 
key  for  yours." 

"You'll  come  to  see  me  sometimes?" 

"After  to-night,  I  shall  be  laid  up  for  a  while,  grow- 
ing a  pair  of  legs.  Later  I'll  look  in,  now  and  then. 
How  about  a  little  music,  before  you  retire  to  your 
room  for  the  next  few  months?  I'll  tell  you  a  secret. 
I'm  nervous  about  to-night,  and  frightened.  A  little 
Beethoven?  to  soothe  our  nerves?  the  Adagio  from 
thePathetique?" 

He  stumped  beside  her,  holding  her  hand  as  a  child 
holds  that  of  its  nurse;  but  for  a  different  reason. 

That  night,  securely  locked  in  her  own  room  next 
to  his,  she  slept  at  last  from  sheer  weariness.  And 
she  dreamed  that  he  was  playing  to  her,  for  her — the 
Adagio,  and  then  the  "Funeral  March  of  a  Hero." 


XLVI 

OCCASIONALLY  now,  for  a  long  time,  there  had  been 
coming  from  the  next  room  the  clink  of  steel  against 
steel,  a  murmur  of  hushed  voices,  and  a  sound  of 
several  pairs  of  feet  moving  softly.  With  the  excep- 
tion of  two  cups  of  soup,  Wilmot,  in  preparation  for 
what  he  was  to  undergo,  had  had  nothing  to  eat. 
What  with  this  and  the  natural  commotion  of  revolt 
in  his  whole  nervous  system,  he  was  weak  and  faint. 

The  door  opened,  and  Dr.  Ferris  came  quietly  into 
the  room  and  bent  over  him.  He  was  in  white  linen 
from  head  to  foot,  and  wore  upon  his  hands  a  pair  of 
thin  rubber  gloves,  glistening  with  the  water  in  which 
they  had  been  boiling. 

Prepared  to  find  Wilmot,  he  naturally  recognized 
him,  hi  spite  of  the  beard  which  so  changed  the  young 
man's  face  for  the  worse;  but  of  this  recognition  he 
gave  no  sign.  The  legless  man,  alert  for  any  possi- 
bility of  self-betrayal  on  Wilmot's  part,  had  followed 
him  into  the  room.  Dr.  Ferris  spoke  very  quickly: 

"My  man,"  he  said,  "is  it  true  that  of  your  own 
free  will,  in  exchange  for  immunity  and  other  benefits 
received,  you  consent  to  the  amputation  of  both  your 
legs,  as  near  the  hip-joint  as  may  be  found  necessary?  " 

Wilmot  drew  a  long  breath,  focussed  his  mind  upon 
bright  memories  of  Barbara,  and  slowly  nodded. 


THE  PENALTY  313 

"You  are  quite  sure?  You  are  holding  back  noth- 
ing? There  has  been  no  coercion?  " 

"It's  all  right,"  chirped  in  Blizzard.  "Glad  of  the 
chance  to  pay  me  back,  aren't  you,  my  boy?" 

For  a  moment  Wilmot's  eyes  rested  with  a  cold 
contempt  on  the  beggar's.  And  he  thought,  "  to  save 
her  from  that!"  and  once  more  nodded. 

"Shall  I  tell  them  to  bring  the  ether,  doctor?" 

Dr.  Ferris  turned  his  head  slowly. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  said,  in  his  smiling 
professional  voice.  "You  ought  to  be  undressed, 
scrubbed,  and  ready  for  the  anaesthetic  yourself." 

"But  I  thought — I  thought  you'd  make  sure  of  the 
legs  first,  before  you  did  anything  to  me." 

"The  success  of  graftage,"  said  the  doctor,  "lies  in 
the  speed  with  which  the  parts  to  be  grafted  can  be 
transferred  from  one  patient  to  the  other.  In  this 
case,  the  two  operations  will  proceed  at  the  same 
time — side  by  side.  There  are  four  of  us,  and  two 
nurses  to  do  what  is  necessary — now  if  you  will  go 
and  get  ready." 

"Frankly,  doctor,  do  you  think  the  chances  of 
success  are  good?" 

Dr.  Ferris's  voice  rang  out  heartily.  "Splendid!" 
he  said,  "splendid!"  He  turned  once  more  to  Wil- 
mot.  "I  am  sorry  for  you,"  he  said  kindly,  "but 
you  are  willing  that  we  should  go  ahead,  aren't  you?" 

Blizzard  stood,  hesitating. 

"Not  losing  your  nerve?"  asked  the  surgeon,  and 
there  was  the  least  hint  of  mockery  in  his  voice. 


3i4  THE  PENALTY 

"Hope  this  is  the  last  time  I  have  to  walk  on 
stumps,"  Blizzard  answered,  and  he  began  to  move 
toward  the  door. 

"I  hope  so,  too,  Blizzard,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "with 
all  my  heart."  And  with  an  encouraging  nod  to 
Wilmot  he  followed  the  beggar  out  of  the  room,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

In  the  operating  quarter  were  two  nurses  on  whom 
Dr.  Ferris  had  been  able  to  rely  for  many  years,  and 
three  clean-cut  young  surgeons,  in  whom  he  had  de- 
tected more  than  ordinary  talents. 

"He  said  he'd  send  word  when  he  was  ready,"  said 
one  of  the  nurses. 

"Good,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "for  I  have  a  few  words 
to  say  to  you  all,  knowing  that,  because  of  the  etiquette 
of  our  profession,  these  words  will  not  go  any  further." 

For  five  minutes  he  spoke  quietly  and  gravely.  He 
told  them  his  relations  with  Blizzard  since  the  begin- 
ning. And  something  of  Blizzard's  relations,  subse- 
quent to  the  loss  of  his  legs,  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Then  he  explained  the  operation  which  he  was  ex- 
pected to  perform,  enlarging  upon  both  its  chances 
for  success  and  for  failure.  And  then,  much  to  the 
astonishment  of  his  audience,  he  brought  his  talk  to 
an  end  with  these  words: 

"But  in  this  instance  the  operation  has  no  chance 
whatever  of  success.  The  stump  of  a  limb  amputated 
in  childhood  does  not  keep  pace  with  the  rest  of  the 
body-growth.  And  we  should  be  trying  to  graft  the 
legs  of  a  grown  man  upon  the  hips  of  a  child.  It 


THE  PENALTY  315 

seems,  therefore,  that  I  have  brought  you  here  under 
false  pretenses.  Technically  I  am  going  to  commit  a 
crime — I  am  going  to  perform  an  operation  not  thought 
of  or  sanctioned  by  the  patient.  But  my  conscience 
is  clear.  When  I  examined  the  child  Blizzard  after  he 
had  been  run  over,  I  did  not  give  the  attention  which 
would  be  given  nowadays  to  minor  injuries,  bruises, 
and  contusions  which  he  had  sustained.  From  all  ac- 
counts the  boy  was  a  good  boy  up  to  the  time  of  his 
accident.  In  taking  off  his  legs  I  have  blamed  myself 
for  the  whole  of  his  subsequent  downfall.  I  think  I 
have  been  wrong.  The  man  was  once  arrested  for  a 
crime,  and  freed  on  police  perjury.  During  his  n> 
carceration,  however,  accurate  measurements  and  a 
description  of  him  were  made.  Only  to-day  a  copy 
of  this  document  has  been  shown  to  me,  by  a  gentle- 
man high  in  the  secret  service.  And  it  seems  that 
Blizzard  is  differentiated  from  other  legless  men,  by 
a  mole  under  one  arm,  and  by  a  curious  protuberance 
on  the  back  of  his  head — and  I  believe  that  his  moral 
delinquency  is  not  owing  to  the  despair  and  humilia- 
tion of  being  a  cripple,  but  to  skull-pressure  upon  the 
brain." 

The  three  young  surgeons  looked  at  each  other. 
One  of  them  started  to  voice  a  protest. 

"But,  doctor — it's — you're  asking  a  good  deal  of 
us.  I  don't  know  that  I  personally " 

Three  knocks  sounded  quietly  on  a  door  of  the 
room.  Dr.  Ferris,  breaking  into  a  smile  of  relief, 
sprang  to  open  it. 


3i6  THE  PENALTY 

In  the  rectangle  appeared  Lichtenstein;  he  was 
dripping  wet  from  head  to  foot  and  carried  in  one 
hand  a  heavy  blue  automatic. 

"'Fraid  you  couldn't  make  it,"  exclaimed  the  sur- 
geon. 

"Had  to  dynamite  a  safe  down  in  the  cellar — hear 
anything?" 

Dr.  Ferris  shook  his  head,  and  turned  to  the  others. 

"Mr.  Lichtenstein,"  he  said,  "of  the  secret  ser- 
vice. .  .  .  Lichtenstein,  some  of  these  youngsters 
don't  want  to  mix  up  in  this.  Tell  them  things." 

Lichtenstein  smiled  broadly.  "Then  I'll  have  to 
operate,"  he  said.  And  he  lifted  his  pistol  ostenta- 
tiously. "Young  men,"  he  went  on,  "if  you  aren't 
willing  to  make  a  decent  citizen  of  Blizzard,  why  I 
must  arrest  him,  and  send  him  to  the  chair,  or  if  he 
resists  arrest,  I  must  make  a  decent  dead  man  of 
him " 

In  the  distance  there  rose  suddenly  the  powerful 
cries  of  the  legless  man.  "All  ready,"  he  cried, 
"bring  on  your  ether." 

"Who's  going  to  help  me?"  asked  Dr.  Ferris. 

The  three  young  surgeons  stepped  quickly  forward. 

"Good,"  said  Dr.  Ferris.  "He's  strong  as  a  bull. 
You  come  with  me,  Jordyce,  and  you  two  wait  within 
hearing  just  outside  the  door." 

"One  moment,"  said  Lichtenstein,  "where's  young 
Allen?" 

"In  there,"  said  Dr.  Ferris. 

"I'll  just  introduce  myself,"  said  the  Jew,  "and 


THE  PENALTY  317 

tell  him  what's  up.  He  must  be  in  a  most  unpleasant 
state  of  mind." 

To  Wilmot  there  appeared  the  figure  of  a  little 
stout  man  with  red  hair  and  a  pug  nose,  who  was 
dripping  wet,  and  who  smiled  in  an  engaging  fashion. 

"You're  safe  as  you'd  be  in  your  own  house,"  said 
the  kindly  Jew;  "no  ether — no  amputation — no  noth- 
ing. And  here's  a  note  from  Miss  Barbara.  I'm 
dripping  wet,  but  I  guess  the  ink  hasn't  run  so's  you 
can't  read  it." 

Wilmot  read  his  note,  and  a  great  light  of  happiness 
came  into  his  eyes. 

"After  a  while,"  said  Lichtenstein,  "I'll  hunt  up 
more  clothes  for  you,  and  you  can  jump  into  a  car 
and  run  out  to  Clovelly.  Don't  let  Miss  Barbara  see 
you  in  that  beard,  though." 

"I  won't,"  said  Wilmot.  "Tell  me  what's  hap- 
pened. Has  Blizzard  been  arrested?  You're " 

"I'm  Abe  Lichtenstein " 

"Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  Wilmot,  "if  I'd  only  gone 
straight  to  you " 

"If  you  had  you  might  never  have  known  that 
Beauty  would  have  married  the  Beast — just  to  save 
young  Mr.  Allen  pain.  But  why  come  to  me?" 

"With  information  from  Harry  West.  He  had  run 
the  whole  conspiracy  down.  It  seems " 

"Names — did  he  give  names?" 

"Yes — unbelievable  names." 

Lichtenstein's  eyes  narrowed  with  excitement. 

In  the  next  room  there  arose  suddenly  the  sound 


3i8  THE  PENALTY 

of  many  feet  shuffling,  as  if  men  were  carrying  a 
heavy  weight,  and  presently  the  smell  of  ether  began 
to  come  to  them  through  the  key-hole.  And  they 
heard  groans,  and  a  dull,  passionless  voice  that  spoke 
words  of  blasphemy  and  obscenity.  ' 


XLVII 

IT  was  rare  in  Dr.  Ferris's  experience  to  see  a  man, 
after  an  operation,  come  so  quickly  to  his  senses.  It 
was  to  be  accounted  for  by  perfect  health  and  a 
powerful  mind.  The  patient  lay  on  his  side,  because 
of  the  wound  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  into  his 
eyes,  glazed  and  ether-blind,  there  came  suddenly 
light  and  understanding,  and  memory.  Memory 
brought  the  sweat  to  his  forehead  in  great  beads. 

"Is  it  over?"  he  asked  quickly.  "Have  you  done 
the  trick?" 

"It  couldn't  be  done." 

"When  did  you  find  that  out?" 

"I  knew  it  before  you  went  under  ether." 

"Then  you  haven't  mutilated  young  Allen?" 

"No." 

The  legless  man's  eyes  closed,  and  he  smiled,  and 
for  perhaps  a  minute  dozed.  He  awoke  saying: 
"Thank  God  for  that."  A  moment  later:  "I'm  all 
knocked  out  of  time — what  have  you  done  to  me?" 

"I  took  the  liberty  of  freeing  your  brain  from  press- 
ure— result  of  an  old  accident.  It  can  only  do  you 
good.  It  was  hurting  your  mind  more  and  more." 

"I'd  like  to  sleep,  but  I  have  the  horrors." 

"What  sort  of  horrors?" 
319 


320  THE  PENALTY 

"Remorse — remorse,"  said  the  legless  man  in  a 
strong  voice. 

Dr.  Ferris  was  trembling  with  excitement. 

"But  thank  God  my  deal  against  Allen  didn't  go 
through.  That's  something  saved  out  of  the  burn- 
ing. Where  is  Rose?  I  want  Rose." 

"Rose?" 

"I  remember.  I  locked  her  up — in  that  room. 
The  key's  in  the  bureau  top  drawer,  left.  I'd  like 
her  to  sit  by  me.  I  want  to  go  to  sleep.  I  want  to 
forget.  Time  enough  to  remember  when  I'm  not 
sick.  .  .  .  That  you,  Rose?  Sit  by  me  and  hold  my 
hand,  there's  a  dear.  If  I  need  anything  she'll  call 
you,  doctor.  Just  leave  us  alone,  will  you?" 

He  clung  to  the  hand,  as  a  child  clings  to  its  mother's 
hand;  and  there  was  a  tenderness  and  trust  in  the 
clasp  that  thrilled  the  girl  to  her  heart. 

"Say  you  forgive  me,  Rose."  His  voice  was 
wheedling. 

She  leaned  forward  and  kissed  him. 

"We  got  a  lot  to  live  down,  Rose.  Don't  say  we 
can't  do  it.  Wait  till  I'm  up  and  around,  and  strong." 

He  fell  asleep,  breathing  quietly.  Two  hours  later 
he  woke.  Rose  had  not  moved. 

"We'll  begin,"  he  said,  "at  once  by  getting  mar- 
ried. I've  dreamed  it  all  out.  And  we'll  set  up  home 
in  a  far  place.  That  is,  if  they'll  give  me  a  chance. 
But  I've  never  asked  you — Rose,  will  you  marry  me?  " 

"Do  you  want  me?"  She  leaned  forward  and 
rested  her  cheek  against  his. 


THE  PENALTY  321 

"Do  you  understand?"  he  said.  "We're  begin- 
ning all  over.  You  can't  undo  things  that  you've 
done;  but  you  can  start  out  and  do  the  other  kind  of 
things  and  strike  some  sort  of  a  balance — not  before 
man  maybe — but  in  your  own  conscience.  That's 
something.  I  want  to  talk  to  Ferris.  Call  him,  will 
you,  and  leave  us." 

"Doctor,  was  everything  I  was  bone  pressure? 
Ever  get  drunk?  " 

Dr.  Ferris  nodded  gravely.  "In  extreme  youth," 
he  said. 

"Well,  you  know  how  the  next  day  you  remember 
some  of  the  things  you  did,  and  half  remember  others, 
and  have  the  shakes  and  horrors  all  around,  and  make 
up  your  mind  you'll  never  do  so  and  so  again?  That's 
me — at  this  moment.  But  the  past  I'm  facing  is  a 
million  times  harder  to  face  than  the  average  spree. 
It  covers  years  and  years.  It's  black  as  pitch.  I 
don't  recall  any  white  places.  Everything  that  the 
law  of  man  forbids  I've  done,  and  everything  that  the 
law  of  God  forbids.  I  won't  detail.  It's  enough 
that  I  know.  Some  wrongs  I  can  put  finger  to  and 
right;  others  have  gone  their  way  out  of  reach,  out 
of  recovery.  Maybe  I  don't  sound  sorry  enough?  I 
tell  you  it  takes  every  ounce  of  courage  I've  got  to 
remember  my  past,  and  face  it.  Was  it  all  bone 
pressure?  Am  I  really  changed?  Am  I  accountable 
for  what  I  did?  Was  it  I  that  did  wicked  things  right 
and  left,  or  was  it  somebody  else  that  did  'em?  An- 
other thing,  is  the  change  permanent?  Am  I  a  good 


322  THE  PENALTY 

man  now,  or  am  I  having  some  sort  of  a  fit?  Fetch 
me  a  hand-glass  off  the  bureau,  will  you?" 

Blizzard  looked  at  himself  in  the  mirror. 

"Seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "I've  changed.  Seems  to 
me  I  don't  look  so  much — like  hell,  as  I  did.  What 
do  you  think?" 

"I  think,  Blizzard,"  said  Dr.  Ferris,  "that  when 
you  were  run  over  as  a  child  you  hurt  your  head.  I 
think  that  even  if  I  hadn't  cut  off  your  legs  you  would 
have  grown  up  an  enemy  of  society.  I  think  that  up 
to  the  time  of  your  accident,  and  since  you  have  come 
out  of  ether  just  now,  are  the  only  two  periods  in 
your  life  when  you  have  been  sane,  and  accountable 
for  your  actions.  Between  these  two  periods,  as  I 
see  it,  you  were  insane — clever,  shrewd — all  that — 
but  insane  nevertheless.  I  think  this — I  know  it. 
Even  the  expression  of  your  face  has  changed.  You 
look  like  an  honest  man,  a  man  to  be  trusted,  an  able 
man,  a  kind  man,  the  kind  of  man  you  were  meant 
to  be — a  good  man." 

"You  really  think  that?" 

"It  isn't  what  I  think,  after  all;  it's  what  you  feel. 
Do  you  wish  to  be  kind  to  people — friends  with  them? 
To  do  good?" 

"That  is  the  way  I  feel  now.  But,  doctor — will  it 
last?" 

"It's  got  to  last,  Blizzard.  And  you've  got  to  stop 
talking." 

"But  will  they  give  me  a  chance?  Lichtenstein 
could  send  me  to  the  chair  if  he  wanted  to." 


THE  PENALTY  323 

"He  won't  do  that.    He  will  understand." 

"I  should  like  Miss  Barbara  to  feel  kindly  toward 
me." 

"She  will.  I  hope  that  your  mind  has  changed 
about  her,  too?  " 

"That,"  said  Blizzard,  "is  between  me  and  my 
conscience.  Whatever  I  feel  toward  her  will  never 
trouble  her  again." 


XLVIII 

WITH  O'Hagan  dead  and  Blizzard  turned  penitent, 
the  bottom  of  course  fell  clean  out  of  the  scheme  to 
loot  Maiden  Lane  and  the  Sub-Treasury.  But  the 
work  of  Lichtenstein  and  his  agents  had  not  been  in 
vain.  Like  the  man  in  the  opera  Lichtenstein  had 
a  little  "list."  The  lieutenant-governor  soon  retired 
into  private  life.  He  gave  out  that  he  wished  to 
devote  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  philanthropic  en- 
terprises. The  police  commissioner  resigned,  owing 
to  ill  health.  Others  who  had  counted  too  many 
unhatched  chicks  went  into  bankruptcy.  Some  thou- 
sands of  discontents  in  the  West  who  had  been  prom- 
ised lucrative  work  in  New  York,  about  January  i5th, 
were  advised  to  stick  to  their  jobs,  and  to  keep  their 
mouths  shut.  The  two  blind  cripples  who  had  delved 
for  so  many  years  in  Blizzard's  cellars  were  brought 
up  into  the  light  and  cared  for.  Miss  Marion  O'Brien 
went  home  to  England  with  an  unusually  large  pot 
of  savings,  and  married  a  man  who  spent  these  and 
beat  her  until  she  had  thoroughly  paid  the  penalty 
for  all  her  little  dishonesties  and  treacheries.  It  was 
curious  that  all  the  little  people  in  the  plot  received 
tangible  punishments,  while  the  big  people  seemed  to 
go  scot-free.  Blizzard,  for  instance. 

324 


THE    PENALTY  325 

No  sooner  recovered  from  the  operation  on  the 
back  of  his  head  than  the  creature  was  up  and  doing. 
In  straightening  out  his  life  and  affairs  he  displayed 
the  energy  of  a  steam-boiler  under  high  pressure  and 
a  colossal  cheerfulness. 

His  first  act  was  to  marry  Rose;  his  second  to  let 
it  be  known  throughout  the  East  Side  that  he  was 
no  longer  marching  in  the  forefront  of  crime.  This 
ultimatum  started  a  procession  of  wrongdoers  to 
Marrow  Lane.  They  came  singly,  in  threes  and  fours, 
humble  and  afraid;  men  of  substance,  gunmen,  the 
athletic,  the  diseased,  fat  crooks,  thin  crooks,  saloon- 
keepers and  policemen,  Italians  and  Slavs,  short 
noses  and  long  (many — many  of  them),  two  clergy- 
men, two  bankers,  sharp-eyed  children,  married 
women  who  were  childless,  unmarried  women  who 
weren't — and  all  these  came  trembling  and  with  but 
the  one  thought:  "Is  he  going  to  tell  what  he  knows 
about  us?" 

He  was  not.  Some  he  bullied  a  little,  for  habit  is 
strong;  some  he  treated  with  laughter  and  irony, 
some  with  wit,  and  some  with  kindness  and  deep 
understanding.  He  might  have  been  an  able  shep- 
herd going  to  work  on  a  hopelessly  numerous  black 
and  ramshackle  flock  of  sheep.  He  couldn't  expect 
to  make  model  citizens  out  of  all  his  old  heelers; 
he  couldn't  expect  to  turn  more  than  fifty  per  cent 
of  his  two  clergymen  into  the  paths  of  righteousness. 
But  with  the  young  criminals  he  took  much  pains, 
giving  money  where  it  would  do  good,  and  advice 


326  THE  PENALTY 

whether  it  would  do  good  or  not.  Among  the  first 
to  come  to  him  was  Kid  Shannon. 

"Now  look  a-here,"  said  the  Kid,  "I  bin  good  and 
bad  by  turns  till  I  don't  know  which  side  is  top  side. 
But  this  minute  I'm  good — d'you  get  me?  If  you 
want  to  jail  me  you  kin  do  it,  nobody  easier;  but 
don't  do  it!  You  was  always  a  bigger  man  than  me, 
and  when  you  led  I  followed — for  a  real  man  had 
rather  follow  a  strong  bad  man  than  a  good  slob  any 
day.  You  out  of  the  lead,  I  got  nothing  to  follow 
but  me  own  wishes,  and  they're  all  to  the  good  these 
days." 

"A  woman?"  said  Blizzard  sternly. 

"She  ain't  a  woman  yet,"  said  the  Kid,  "and  she 
ain't  a  kid — she's  about  half-past  girl  o'clock,  and 
she  thinks  there's  no  better  man  in  the  United  States 
than  always  truly  yours,  Kid  Shannon.  I  got  a  good 
saloon  business,  and  nothing  crooked  on  hand  but 
what's  'past  and  done  with,  and  I  looks  to  you  to 
give  a  fellow  a  chance.  Do  I  get  it?  Jail  ain't  goin' 
to  help  me,  and  it  would  break  her.  Look  here,  sport: 
I  want  to  be  good." 

"Kid,"  said  Blizzard,  "no  man  that  wants  to  be 
good  need  be  afraid  of  me.  You'd  have  been  a  good 
boy  always — if  it  hadn't  been  for  me.  7  know  that 
as  well  as  you.  I've  got  the  past  all  written  down  in 
my  head.  I  can't  rub  it  out.  But  any  man  that's 
got  the  nerve  can  put  new  writing  across  and  across 
the  old,  until  the  old  can't  be  read,  or  if  it  could  would 
read  like  a  joke.  You  can  tell  whomsoever  it  con- 


THE  PENALTY  327 

cerns  to  do  well  and  fear  nothing.  At  first  I  thought 
to  tell  Lichtenstein  every  first  and  last  thing  that  I 
knew  about  this  city,  and  he  tried  to  make  me  tell. 
We  had  a  meeting,  Old  Abe  and  I  did.  I  was  always 
afraid  of  the  little  Jew,  Kid.  Well,  face  to  face,  I 
wasn't.  He  talked,  and  I  talked.  And  I  was  the 
stronger.  He  lets  me  go  scot-free,  and  I  don't  tell 
anything.  If  others  get  you  for  what  you've  done,  it 
can't  be  helped.  But  none  of  you'll  be  got  through 
me.  The  past  is  buried;  but  if  in  the  future  any  of 
you  fellows  start  anything,  and  I  hear  of  it — look 
out." 

Kid  Shannon  wriggled  uncomfortably.  "Say,"  he 
said,  "what  changed  you?" 

"I'm  not  changed,"  said  Blizzard;  "according  to 
Dr.  Ferris  I'm  just  acting  natural.  I  was  a  good  boy. 
I  had  a  fracture  of  the  skull.  The  bone  pressed  on 
my  gray  matter  and  made  me  a  bad  man.  I'll  tell 
you  a  funny  thing:  I  can't  beat  the  box  any  morel  I 
had  a  go  at  it  the  other  day,  the  missus  all  ready  to 
work  the  pedals,  and  Lord  help  me  there  was  no  more 
music  in  my  head  or  my  fingers  than  there  is  in  the 
liver  of  a  frog.  It  was  the  same  when  I  was  a  two- 
legged  little  kid — no  music." 

"Are  you  going  to  close  the  old  diggings?" 

Blizzard  shook  his  head.  "Yes  and  no.  I'm  go- 
ing to  pull  down  the  old  rookery;  and  I'm  going  to 
put  up  in  its  place  a  model  factory." 

"Hats?" 

"Hats  and  maybe  other  things.     I'm  going  to  show 


328  THE  PENALTY 

New  York  how  to  run  a  sweatshop — you  wait  and 
see — the  most  wages  and  the  least  sweat — and  the 
girls  happier  and  safer  than  in  their  own  homes.  The 
missus  and  I  were  planning  to  bolt  to  a  new  place 
and  begin  life  all  over.  That  was  foolish.  I'd  always 
feel  like  a  coward.  Don't  forget  that  old  friends 
meditating  new  crimes  will  be  welcome  at  the  office 
— advice  always  given  away,  money  sometimes  and 
sometimes  help.  Pass  the  word  around — and  when 
you  and  Miss  Half-past  Girl  send  out  your  cards 
don't  forget  me  and  Mrs.  Blizzard  in  Marrow 
Lane." 

He  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  very  bright  and  mis- 
chievous. 

"Kid,"  he  said,  "artistically  and  dramatically,  it's 
a  pity." 

"What's  a  pity?" 

"That  we  didn't  loot  Maiden  Lane  before  we  got 
religion.  If  there  was  any  hitch  in  the  plan,  I  don't 
know  what  it  was.  And,  Lord,  I  was  so  set  on  the 
whole  thing — not  because  I  wanted  the  loot,  but  to 
see  if  it  could  be  done.  Some  of  you  always  said  it 
couldn't — said  there  was  a  joker  in  the  pack.  Well, 
we'll  never  know  now.  And  here's  Mrs.  O'Farrall 
come  to  pass  the  time  of  day — Good-by,  Kid,  so- 
long,  pass  the  word  around.  Good  luck — love  and 
best  wishes  to  Half -past!  Mrs.  O'Farrall,  your 
kitchen  extends  under  the  sidewalk;  the  more  nego- 
tiable of  your  delicatessen  are  cooked  on  city  prop- 
erty." 


THE  PENALTY  329 

"And  'twill  be  me  ruin  to  have  it  found  out.  What 
I  came  for " 

"Was  to  find  out  what  I'm  going  to  do  about  it. 
Well,  the  law  that  you're  breaking  isn't  hurting  the 
city  a  bit,  Mrs.  O'Farrall — I  wish  I  could  say  the 
same  for  your  biscuits.  If  you're  reported,  come  to 
me  and  I'll  see  you  through.  How's  Morgan  the 
day?" 

"The  same  as  to-morrow,  thank  ye  kindly — dhrunk 
and  philanderin'." 

"I'll  send  him  a  pledge  to  sign  with  my  compli- 
ments, Mrs.  O'Farrall,  and  a  good  job  at  the  same 
time." 

"He'll  never  sign  the  pledge." 

"Not  if  I  ask  him  to,  Mrs.  O'Farrall,  ask  him  on 
bended  knee?" 

Mrs.  O'Farrall  looked  frightened,  apoplectic,  and 
confused.  Blizzard  lifted  his  heavy  eyebrows,  then 
a  smile  began  to  brighten  his  face. 

"Mrs.  O'Farrall,"  said  he,  "blessings  on  your  old 
red  face!  For  just  this  minute  for  the  first  time  since 
I  lost  them,  the  fact  that  I  have  no  knees  to  bend 
escaped  me.  Your  religion  teaches  you  that  the 
Lord  is  good  to  the  repentant  sinner.  Madam,  he 
is!"  And  then  he  began  to  call  in  a  loud  voice: 

"Rose — Rose,  run  down  a  minute.  I  clean  for- 
got that  I  hadn't  any  legs." 

She  came,  fresh,  young,  and  lovely.  What  if  she 
had  played  the  traitor — thrown  her  cap  over  the 
wind-mills?  These  things  are  not  serious  matters  to 


330  THE  PENALTY 

her  sex — when  the  men  they  love  are  kind.  And 
then  Lichtenstein  had  forgiven  her,  and  pretended  to 
box  her  ears — and  then  she  had  had  enough  tragedy 
and  jealousy  crowded  into  a  few  months  to  atone  for 
greater  crimes  and  lapses  than  hers. 


XLIX 

"I  UNDERSTAND,"  said  Blizzard  sternly,  "that  when 
you  learned  I  was  your  father,  you  refused  to  proceed 
further  against  me." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Bubbles. 

"You  did  wrong!  Always  do  your  duty.  It  was 
your  duty  to  send  me  to  the  chair,  if  you  could.  A 
fine  father  I'd  been  to  you — and  to  Harry — and  a 
good  honest  man  I  was  to  your  mother!  My  boy, 
I'm  face  to  face  with  the  penalty  that  I  have  to  pay 
— you.  I  know  all  about  you,  Bubbles,  from  Lich- 
tenstein,  from  Dr.  Ferris,  from  Wilmot  Allen  and — 
and  others.  And  you're  a  good  boy.  I  drove  your 
mother  crazy,  I  let  you  drift  into  the  streets — to  sink, 
I  thought,  and  perish;  but  you're  a  good  boy.  I  gave 
you  no  education,  but  you  have  picked  up  reading 
and  writing  and  God  knows  what  else.  Once  I  was 
going  to  wring  your  neck.  I  didn't.  That's  the 
only  favor  you  ever  had  at  my  hands.  You'll  grow 
up  to  be  a  good  man — a  fine,  clever,  understanding 
man.  And  it  won't  be  because  of  me,  it  will  be  in 
spite  of  me.  This  is  the  hardest  thing  I  have  to  face. 
You've  come  now  to  pay  a  duty  call.  Well,  my  boy, 
I'm  obliged.  But  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  some  hold 
on  your  affection,  some  way  of  getting  a  hold.  Bub- 
bles, what  can  I  do  to  make  you  like  me?  " 

331 


332  THE  PENALTY 

Bubbles  wriggled  with  awful  discomfort,  but  said 
nothing. 

"Is  it  because  of  your  mother  that  you  can't  ever 
like  me?" 

Bubbles  drew  a  long  breath  as  if  for  a  deep  dive. 
His  voice  shook.  "She  lives  in  a  bug-house,"  he 
said;  "you  drove  her  into  it.  Dr.  Ferris  says  you 
were  crazy  yourself  and  nothing  you  ever  done  ought 
to  be  held  against  you.  He  says,  and  Miss  Barbara, 
she  says,  that  I  ought  to  try  to  like  you  and  feel  kind 
to  you.  And — and  I  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  come 
and  tell  you  that  I  just  can't." 

He  was  only  a  little  boy,  and  the  delivery  of  these 
plain  truths  to  a  man  he  had  always  held  in  deadly 
dread  unmanned  him.  He  gave  one  short,  wailing, 
whimpering  sob,  and  then  bit  his  lips  until  he  had 
himself  in  a  sort  of  control. 

"That's  all  right,  Bubbles,"  said  the  legless  man 
after  a  pause.  "It  hits  hard,  but  it's  all  right.  And 
whether  you  said  it  or  not,  it  was  coming  to  me,  and 
I  knew  it.  Do  you  mind  if  I  send  you  books  and 
things  now  and  then?  There  was  a  book  I  had  when 
I  was  a  boy.  I'd  like  you  to  have  it.  Don't  know 
what  reminds  me  of  it — unless  it's  you.  It's  the  story 
of  a  Frenchman,  Bayard — they  called  him  the  cheva- 
lier sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.  That's  French.  The 
book  tells  what  it  means.  You  better  go  now.  I'm 
talking  against  time.  I  haven't  got  the  same  con- 
trol of  my  nerves  I  used  to  have.  I'm  all  broken  up, 
my  boy.  But  you're  dead  right — dead  right.  I  say 


THE  PENALTY  333 

so,  and  I  think  so.  You're  to  go  to  boarding-school. 
That's  good.  They  won't  teach  you  any  evil." 

He  did  not  offer  his  hand,  and  the  boy  was  glad. 

"Well,  good-by,"  he  said  uneasily,  reached  the  door, 
turned,  and  came  back  a  little  way.  "Wish  you  good 
luck,"  he  said. 

Blizzard  lowered  his  formidable  head  almost  rever- 
ently, "Thank  you,"  he  said. 

Poor  Bubbles,  he  began  to  whistle  before  he  was 
out  of  the  building;  it  wasn't  from  heartlessness,  it 
was  from  pure  discomfort  and  remorse.  Anyway, 
bis  father  heard  the  shrill  piping — and  he  sat  and 
looked  straight  ahead  of  him,  and  his  face  was  as  that 
of  Satan  fallen — fallen,  and  hell  fires  licked  into  the 
marrow  of  his  bones. 

So  Rose  found  him,  and  flung  herself  upon  his 
breast  with  a  cry  of  yearning,  and  his  heavy  sorrowed 
head  nestled  closer  and  closer  to  hers,  and  he  burst 
suddenly  into  a  great  storm  of  weeping. 


BUT  the  legless  man  was  not  one  who  easily  or  often 
gave  way  to  grief.  He  retained  all  of  that  will-power 
which  had  made  him  so  potent  for  evil,  and  he  used 
it  now  to  force  cheerfulness  out  of  discouragement 
and  sorrow.  Just  what  he  proposed  to  do  with  his 
life  is  difficult  to  expose,  for  his  plans  kept  changing, 
as  almost  all  plans  do,  in  the  working  out. 

His  remodelled  factory  will  serve  for  an  example. 
It  began  as  a  place  in  which  the  East  Side  maiden 
could  earn  enough  money  to  keep  body  and  soul  to- 
gether without  scotching  either.  Still  keeping  to  this 
idea,  Blizzard  kept  brightening  conditions,  and  let- 
ting in  light — figuratively  and  actually.  And  he 
proved  that  short  hours,  high  pay,  and  worth-while 
profits  may  be  made  to  keep  company.  It  all  de- 
pends on  how  much  willingness  and  efficiency  are 
crowded  into  the  short  hours.  Employment  in  Bliz- 
zard's factory  became  a  distinction,  like  membership 
in  an  exclusive  club,  and  carried  with  it  so  many  priv- 
ileges of  comfort  and  self-respect  that  the  employees 
couldn't  very  well  help  being  efficient. 

Blizzard's  office,  where  he  held  the  threads  of  many 
enterprises,  became  a  sort  of  clearing-house  for  East 
Side  troubles.  He  kept  free  certain  hours  during 
which,  sitting  for  all  the  world  like  a  judge,  he  listened 

334 


THE  PENALTY  335 

to  private  affairs,  and  sympathizing,  scolding,  whee- 
dling, and  even  bullying,  he  gave  advice,  gave  money, 
found  work,  brought  about  reconciliations,  and  turned 
hundreds  of  erring  feet  into  the  straight  and  narrow 
path.  He  preached,  and  very  eloquently,  the  gospel 
of  common-sense.  For  every  crisis  in  people's  lives, 
he  seemed  to  remember  a  parallel.  And  his  knowl- 
edge, especially  of  criminalities  and  the  workings  of 
crooked  minds,  seemed  very  marvellous  to  those  who 
sought  him  out.  And  he  was  an  easy  man  to  speak 
truth  to,  for  there  were  very  few  wicked  things  that 
he  had  not  done  himself.  It  is  easier  to  confess  theft 
to  a  thief  than  to  a  man  of  virtue,  and  the  resulting 
advice  may  very  well  be  just  the  same. 

His  energy  and  activity  were  endless.  "It's  just 
as  hard  work,"  he  told  Rose,  "to  do  good  in  the  world 
as  to  do  evil.  I  haven't  changed  my  methods,  only 
my  conditions  and  ideals.  You've  got  to  get  the  con- 
fidence of  the  people  you're  working  for,  and  to  get 
that  you've  got  to  know  more  about  them  than  they 
know  about  themselves.  To  know  that  a  man  has 
murdered,  gives  you  power  over  that  man;  to  know 
that  another  man  has  done  something  fine  and  manly, 
gives  you  a  hold  on  that  man.  Real  men  are  ashamed 
of  having  two  things  found  out  about  them — their 
secret  bad  actions,  and  their  secret  good  actions. 
Men  who  do  good  for  the  sake  of  notoriety  aren't  real 


men." 


"I  know  who's  a  real  man,"  said  Rose. 

He  regarded  her  with  much  tenderness  and  amuse- 


336  THE  PENALTY 

ment.  "Rose,"  he  said,  "there's  one  thing  I'm  keen 
to  know." 

"What?" 

"Will  you  give  an  honest  answer?" 

She  nodded. 

"Well  then,  do  you  like  me  as  much  as  you  did 
when  I  used  to  maltreat  you  and  bully  you  and 
threaten  you?  Or  do  you  like  me  more,  or  do  you 
like  me  less?" 

"It's  just  the  same,"  she  said,  "only  that  then  I 
was  unhappy  all  the  time,  and  now  all  the  time  I'm 
happy." 

"Were  you  unhappy  because  I  wasn't  kind?" 

She  laughed  that  idea  to  scorn.  "I  was  unhappy 
because  you  liked  somebody  else  more  than  me." 

The  amusement  went  out  of  Blizzard's  face;  the 
tenderness  remained.  There  was  one  thing  that  he 
was  determined  to  do  with  his  life,  and  that  was  to 
make  Rose  a  good  husband.  And  he  was  very  fond 
of  her,  and  she  could  make  him  laugh,  but  it  wasn't 
going  to  be  very  easy,  as  long  as  the  image  of  another 
girl  persisted  in  haunting  him. 


LI 


WHEN  Wilmot  Allen  left  Blizzard's  house,  he  went 
direct  to  a  barber-shop,  where  he  remained  for  three 
hundred  years.  During  this  period,  he  lost  his  beard 
and  thereby  regained  his  self-respect.  It  took  him  a 
hundred  years  to  reach  the  Grand  Central,  and  a 
thousand  more  to  get  from  there  to  Clovelly. 

"I  got  your  telegram,"  said  Barbara. 

"When?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

She  broke  into  a  sudden  smile.  "Oh,"  she  said, 
"about  fourteen  hundred  years  ago." 

"Barbara,"  he  said,  "that's  a  miracle!  If  you'd 
said  thirteen  hundred  or  fifteen  hundred  it  would 
have  been  guessing,  but  fourteen  hundred  is  the  exact 
tune  that  has  passed  since  I  telegraphed." 

"Have  you  had  breakfast?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  have  time." 

They  strolled  through  the  familiar  house,  talking 
nonsense.  They  were  almost  too  glad  to  see  each 
other,  for  there  was  now  no  longer  any  question  of 
Barbara  making  up  her  mind.  It  had  been  made  up 
for  her,  and  Wilmot  knew  this  somehow  without  being 
told.  But  when  had  the  definite  change  come? — 
that  change  which  made  her  caring  for  Wilmot  differ- 
ent from  all  her  other  carings?  She  could  not  say. 

He  had  dreaded  telling  her  about  Harry  West's 

337 


338  THE  PENALTY 

death.  And  when  he  had  done  so  he  watched  her 
grave  face  with  appealing  eyes.  Presently  she  smiled 
a  little. 

"I'm  not  heartless,"  she  said,  "but  I'm  going  to 
keep  on  forgetting  all  the  times  when  there  was  any- 
body but  you.  I  expect  most  girls  do  a  lot  of  shilly- 
shallying before  they  are  sure  of  themselves." 

"And  you  are  really  sure  of  yourself?" 

"Yes,  Wilmot,  if  I'm  sure  of  you." 

"The  first  thing,"  he  sa;i,  "is  to  look  into  these 
mining  properties  we've  fallen  heir  to.  West  wasn't 
the  kind  of  man  to  be  easily  fooled;  at  the  same  time 
I  myself  have  learned  something  about  mines." 

"For  instance?"    Her  face  was  very  mischievous. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "for  instance,  I  have  learned  that 
there  are  mines  and  mines.  And  you  know,  Barbs 
dear,  I'm  not  eligible  yet.  I  owe  money,  I  haven't 
made  good  at  anything,  and  I've  got  to — first  of  all. 
Haven't  I?" 

"Are  you  going  to  sit  right  there  and  tell  me  that 
we're  not  to  be  married  until  you've  paid  your  debts 
and  made  a  fortune?  Where  do  I  come  in?  What 
life  have  I  to  lead  except  yours?  If  you  are  in  debt, 
so  am  I.  If  you've  got  to  dig  holes  in  the  ground,  so 
have  I.  Whatever  has  got  to  be  done,  we've  got  to 
do  it  together.  So  much  is  clear.  Of  course  it  would 
be  easier  for  you!" 

"Barbs!" 

A  little  later  he  asked  her  what  she  was  going  to 
do  with  her  head  of  Blizzard. 


THE  PENALTY  339 

"Nothing,"  she  said.  "If  it  is  good  enough,  it 
will  survive  these  troubled  times.  If  it  isn't,  some- 
body will  break  it  up." 

"Are  you  through  with  art?" 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  art?"  she  said.  "I'm 
in  love.  I  used  to  think  that  women  ought  to  have 
professions  and  all.  But  there's  only  one  thing  that 
a  woman  can  do  supremely  well — and  that's  to  make 
a  home  for  a  man.  That  will  take  all  that  she  has  in 
her  of  art  and  heart  and  ambition  and  delicacy.  Of 
course  if  a  girl  is  denied  the  opportunity  of  making 
a  home,  she  can  paint  and  sculp  and  thump  the  piano 
and  get  her  name  in  the  papers.  What  I  want  to 
know  is — when  do  we  start  West?" 

"You've  offered  to  take  me  just  as  I  am,  with  all 
my  encumbrances,  and  to  help  me  fight  things  through 
to  a  good  finish.  And  I  think  that  is  pure  folly  on 
your  part.  But  there's  going  to  be  no  more  folly  on 
mine.  I'm  going  to  be  a  fool.  Barbs — come  here!" 

He  held  out  his  arms,  and  she  threw  herself  into 
them. 

"Is  to-morrow  too  soon,  Barbs?" 

"We  could  hardly  arrange  things  sooner,  but  to 
my  mind  to-morrow  is  not  nearly  soon  enough." 

"What  will  your  father  say?" 

"Why,  if  he's  the  father  I  think  he  is  he'll  bless  us 
and  wish  us  good  luck.  There'll  be  an  awful  lot  to 
do.  Hadn't  we  better  jump  into  a  car,  run  over  to 
Greenwich,  and  get  married?  That  will  be  just  so 
much  off  our  minds." 


LII 


THE  young  Aliens  began  their  new  life  by  plunging 
themselves  still  deeper  in  debt.  Their  honeymoon 
was  very  short.  They  spent  it  on  Long  Island  Sound 
in  a  yacht  which  Wilmot  borrowed  over  the  telephone, 
just  before  they  left  Clovelly  to  be  married.  On  the 
sixth  day  they  went  West.  In  Salt  Lake  City  they 
foregathered  with  a  mining  engineer  to  whom  Wilmot 
had  secured  letters.  This  one  fell  in  love  with  Bar- 
bara, closed  his  office  and  went  with  them  into  the 
hills  for  ten  days.  They  came  out  of  the  hills  with 
brown  faces  and  sparkling  eyes.  The  engineer  opened 
his  office  and  dictated  his  report  of  their  mines  to  his 
stenographer.  During  this  work  of  enthusiasm  he 
occasionally  sighed,  and  the  stenographer  knit  her 
brows. 

"Now  then,"  said  the  engineer  to  Wilmot  and  Bar- 
bara, "if  my  name  is  any  good  in  New  York,  you  can 
raise  all  the  money  you  need  on  that  document.  If 
you  can't,  telegraph,  and  I  can  raise  it  here." 

"But,"  said  Barbara,  growing  very  practical,  "if 
the  money  can  be  raised  here,  why  blow  in  two  car- 
fares and  a  drawing-room  from  here  to  New  York  and 
back?" 

*  Why,"  the  engineer  stammered  a  little,  "I  thought 
you'd  have  lots  and  lots  of  friends  that  you'd  want 
to  let  in  on  the  ground  floor.  But  if  you  haven't, 

340 


The   engineer   made  generous   terms 
across  the  dinner-table 


THE  PENALTY  341 

and  if  my  money  is  as  good  as  another's — you  see, 
it's  a  grand  property — I'm  not  above  longing  for  an 
interest  in  it  myself." 

"I  can't  deny,"  said  Wilmot,  who  had  been  worry- 
ing himself  dreadfully  about  finding  the  means,  "that 
this  looks  like  easy  money  to  me." 

The  engineer  made  generous  terms  across  the 
dinner-table,  and  the  young  Aliens  borrowed  his 
money  from  him. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  engineer  hopefully,  "that 
you'll  run  out  from  time  to  time  to  see  how  things  are 
getting  on?" 

"Run  out?"  exclaimed  Barbara;  "we  are  going  to 
live  with  the  proposition  until  it  goes  through  or 
under.  Aren't  we,  Wilmot?" 

"I  hoped  you'd  feel  that  way  about  it,  Barbs." 

"You  knew  I  would." 

At  first  they  lived  in  a  tent,  and  then  in  a  series  of 
large  wooden  boxes  that  they  called  first  "The  House" 
and  then  "Home."  Machinery  began  to  come  into 
the  camp  in  the  wake  of  long  strings  of  mules  walking 
two  and  two.  Upon  the  report  of  their  special  con- 
sulting engineer  the  nearest  transcontinental  railroad 
began  to  lay  metals  across  the  desert,  to  the  mines. 
One  day  came  strangers  with  picks  and  shovels,  and 
the  next  day  came  more.  And  these  began  to  scratch 
among  the  sage-brush  and  to  explode  sticks  of  dyna- 
mite against  the  faces  of  hills.  Claims  were  staked; 
shanties  built;  a  hotel  with  saloon  attached,  all  of 
shining  tin  and  tar  paper,  arose  in  the  night.  The 


342  THE  PENALTY 

first  thing  Barbara  knew  Wilmot  began  to  talk  of  a 
stretch  of  sage-brush  as  Main  Street.  And  the  same 
day  she  heard  a  man  with  red  beard  speak  of  the 
little  town  as  "Allen." 

One  night  a  man  was  shot  dead  among  the  sage- 
bushes  of  Main  Street.  Six  hours  later  Wilmot  came 
in  on  a  horse  covered  with  lather.  There  was  a  stern, 
but  not  unhappy,  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

"He  showed  fight,"  said  Wilmot;  "and  we  had  to 
pot  him." 

"Did  you " 

"Would  you  care?  We  shook  hands  on  keeping 
all  details  secret.  I  think  the  town  of  Allen  will  be 
run  orderly  in  the  future.  And  by  the  way,  have  I 
such  a  thing  as  a  clean  shirt?" 

"You  will  have,"  said  Barbara,  "when  the  things 
dry." 

"Barbara!" 

"Yes,  it  had  to  come  to  it.  There  are  only  two 
women  in  town,  and  the  other  isn't  fit  to  wash  your 
shirts,  dear." 

"Let  me  see  your  hands." 

He  examined  them  critically,  then  kissed  them  un- 
critically. 

"They  don't  look  like  a  washer-woman's  hands 
yet,"  he  said. 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  yet.  But  please  say  they 
look  less  and  less  like  a  sculptor's," 

"Barbara,"  he  said,  "they  look  more  and  more 


"You  will,"  said  Barbara,  "when  the 
things  dry" 


THE  PENALTY  343 

like  a  dear's.  But  tell  me,  aren't  you  getting  bored 
with  it — missing  New  York  things  and  all  and  all?" 

"No,"  she  said  stoutly,  "I'm  not.  I'm  useful  here 
in  some  ways.  And  I  was  about  as  useful  there  as 
— as  all  the  other  people.  I'm  not  even  worried 
about  the  mines." 

"Neither  am  I.  But  development's  a  great  deal 
slower  than  I  thought.  We've  still  plenty  of  money. 
And  the  moment  we  begin  to  ship  ore,  we'll  have 
plenty  of  credit  which  is  just  as  useful.  No!  I'm 
not  worried.  We're  going  to  be  rich,  and  we're  going 
to  live  in  a  palace." 

"And  then  what?" 

"That  is  worrying  me.  What  do  people -do  when 
the  striving's  over,  and  the  sixteen  hours  a  day  hard 
work?  What  do  they  do?  Oh,  Barbs,  we  know  lots 
of  such  people,  and  we  must  find  out  exactly  what 
they  do,  and — do  something  else.  Living  as  we  are 
living  has  its  drawbacks;  but  it's  not  a  place  to  hurry 
over." 

"It's  a  good  way  to  live,"  said  Barbara.  "If 
you've  got  sense  enough  to  know  that  it's  good  while 
it's  going  on.  People  who  speak  of  the  good  old  days, 
or  who  are  always  looking  forward  to  better  days,  are 
usually  unhappy.  All  the  time  I've  been  washing 
your  clothes  and  mine  this  morning  I  kept  saying, 
'Now  this  is  really  good — this  is  really  worth  while,' 
and  once  when  I  got  the  better  of  an  ink-spot,  my 
heart  began  to  beat  as  if  I'd  just  finished  some  im- 
mortal work." 


344  THE  PENALTY 

They  were  much  amused  with  Bubbles,  who  came 
out  to  them  for  the  Christmas  vacation.  The  short 
fall  term  had  already  stamped  him  with  the  better 
ear-marks  of  the  great  New  England  boarding-schools. 
He  was  quite  a  superior  person,  rather  prone  to  quote, 
just  as  if  they  had  been  facts  out  of  the  gospel,  the 
sayings  of  Mr.  This  and  Mr,  That.  And  he  used 
superior  words,  and  spoke  of  various  Kings  of  Eng- 
land as  if  he  had  always  known  that  such  persons 
existed.  He  had  in  addition  a  smattering  of  Latin, 
his  pride  in  which  he  strove  in  vain  to  conceal.  And 
most  of  all  he  considered  the  school-boy  captain  of 
the  foot-ball  team  a  creature,  on  the  whole,  wiser  and 
more  knowing  even  than  Abe  Lichtenstein. 

But  by  the  time  he  had  been  a  week  in  camp  he 
was  himself  again.  And  by  the  time  he  returned  to 
school  he  had  forgotten  the  ablative  singular  of  Rosa. 

They  thought  best  to  tell  him  that  he  would  have 
plenty  of  money  some  day.  In  view  of  this  would 
he  persist  in  being  a  secret  service  agent?  He  thought 
so.  He  wasn't  sure.  The  service  needed  money 
often  and  always  service.  Had  he  seen  his  father? 
Yes,  and  he  told  them  about  the  interview. 

"And,"  said  Bubbles,  "he  sent  me  a  box  Thanks- 
giving. There  was  a  cold  turkey  and  caramels  and 
guava  jelly  and  ginger-snaps,  and  walnut  meats  and 
seedless  raisins,  and,  and  as  Mr.  Tompkins  says,  it 
doesn't  do  to  be  too  hard  on  a  man." 


Xr-JK*- 


P- 


They  were  much  amused  with  Bubbles, 
who  came  out  to  them  for  Christ- 
mas vacation 


"And  when  you  think,"  said  she,  "that 
some  women  spend  the  best  years 
of  their  lives  making  statues  I" 


ff 
if 


LIII 

SPRING  came.  Their  mine  made  its  first  shipments 
of  ore  and  was  no  longer  a  paper  success.  The  bal- 
ance-sheet for  the  first  month  after  shipments  had 
begun  made  Wilmot  whistle.  He  couldn't  believe 
the  figures,  and  worked  till  late  into  the  night,  trying 
to  find  some  dreadful  error.  Finding  none,  finding 
that  with  the  help  of  others  he  had  really  made  good 
at  last,  the  rough  life  began  to  lose  its  savor.  If  he 
still  owed  money  it  could  be  but  for  a  short  time.  He 
was  free  as  air — free  to  do  what  he  pleased — almost 
to  spend  what  he  pleased. 

"Barbs,"  he  said,  the  next  morning,  "the  mine's 
no  good;  we've  got  to  tackle  something  else." 

"What  do  you  mean,  no  good?   Why,  you  said " 

"I  know  what  I  said.  The  mine  is  a  success. 
Aside  from  what  your  father  has,  you're  a  rich  woman. 
And  I'm  a  rich  man.  And  that's  the  difficulty. 
There's  no  use  working  our  hearts  out  over  a  thing 
that's  a  definite  success — is  there?  No  fun  in  it. 
We've  got  to  look  round  for  something  else.  Now  we 
are  always  going  to  have  money — that's  certain. 

Tiat  are  we  going  to  do  with  it?  Think  of  some- 
tlJng  hard — something  worth  while." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  can't— can  you?" 

:No,"  he  said  almost  angrily,  "  I  can't.    And  that's 

345 


346  THE  PENALTY 

the  rotten  side  of  money.  That's  the  stumbling- 
block  for  everybody  who  succeeds  in  collecting  a  lot 
of  it.  The  distribution  is  infinitely  harder  than  the 
collecting.  I  think  we'd  better  pull  up  stakes,  go 
back  to  New  York,  and  think  hard." 

"Yes.    Let's." 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  talk  with  Buzzard." 

Barbara's  eyebrows  went  high  with  surprise. 

"Why  not?  Your  father  writes  that  the  man  is 
doing  more  good  right  in  New  York  City  where  it's 
most  needed  than  any  six  philanthropists  the  place 
ever  owned.  Maybe  he's  got  something  really  big 
in  view,  and  maybe  he'll  let  us  in  on  the  ground  floor." 

"Well,"  said  Barbara,  "considering  everything,  I 
shouldn't  care  to  have  much  to  do  with  him." 

Wilmot  put  back  his  head  and  laughed  aloud. 
"That,"  said  he,  "is  precisely  the  sort  of  advice  that 
I  used  to  give  you." 

Barbara  blushed.  "I'd  like  to  forget  that  such  a 
man  ever  came  into  my  life  in  any  way." 

"You  can't  forget  it,  dear.  You  asked  him  in. 
You  would  do  it.  And  now  you  can  never  forget. 
And  that's  one  of  the  penalties  you  have  to  pay  for 
going  against  the  people  who  love  you  most." 

"Well,"  said  she,  "I'm  willing  to  keep  on  paying 
— if  the  right  people  will  keep  on  loving.  Anyway, 
philanthropy — good  works — are  none  of  my  business. 
My  business,  sir,  is  to  make  you  a  home.  And  with 
the  exception  of  one  person  that  I  know  about  posi- 
tively, the  rest  of  the  world  can  go  hang." 


THE  PENALTY  347 

"That  statement,"  said  Wilmot,  "sounds  very 
pagan  and  profane  to  me  and  also  very,  very  beauti- 
ful. But,  who,  may  I  ask,  is  this  other  person?  "  His 
brows  gathered  a  little  jealously. 

"This  other  person,"  said  Barbara  quietly,  "is  at 
the  present  moment  a  total  stranger  to  us." 

Then  she  leaned  forward  until  her  head  was  on  his 
breast.  And  she  gave  a  little  sigh  which  was  fifty 
per  cent  comfort,  and  fifty  per  cent  courage.  She 
could  hear  his  heart  beating  like  a  trip-hammer.  Had 
he  burst  into  immortal  eloquence,  his  words  would 
have  been  of  less  consequence  in  her  ear. 

"And  when  you  think,"  said  she,  "that  some 
women  spend  the  best  years  of  their  lives  making 
statues  I" 

THE  END 


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